


Running Towards You

by SnowshadowAO3



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 3b compliant, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Humor, Eating disorder reference, Except For Kate, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, PTSD!Derek, Papa Stilinski is badass, Protective!Derek, Reading, Scott and Derek team up, Scott is also badass, Stiles and Scott are bros obviously, allies to friends to lovers, and a shapeshifter, brief mention of noncon with Stiles/Malia, canon character death mentioned, healing together, ptsd!stiles, recovering!Derek, recovering!Stiles, there's killer mermaids?, wolf!urges
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 17:50:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1787755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowshadowAO3/pseuds/SnowshadowAO3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s 2 A.M.,” Derek says. “What are you doing here?”<br/>Stiles turns to him with raised eyebrows. “We haven’t finished Harry Potter,” he says, as if it’s obvious, and Derek just stares at him. “I mean, if you don’t want to know what happens with Fluffy and the dragon, fine. But I personally think that the plot only gets better from here."</p><p>In which Derek and Stiles are both broken, but it takes a few paperback novels for them to realize that it makes them fit together just right. </p><p>A post-3B Canon Divergence, based on comment that said someone needs to sit Derek down on a couch and read him a nice book.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Worth Following

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based off of this tumblr post: http://hellasterek.tumblr.com/post/87886482150/thealphasspark-rudy-francisco-from-my
> 
> My tumblr: https://let-them-eat-feminism.tumblr.com/

“We don’t need a list of rights and wrongs, tables of dos and don’ts: we need books, time, and silence.  _Thou shalt not_  is soon forgotten, but  _Once upon a time_  lasts forever.”  
**— Philip Pullman**

Derek stares into the cracked mirror above the cold, steel sink of his bathroom counter.

He has to blink a few times to bring his reflection into focus, to muster the strength to look himself in the eye. His wounds from the battle with the Oni have healed, but the blood is still crusted onto his skin like rust on an abandoned car. He can’t seem to make his hands move to wash it off, to wipe the dirt off his neck and the redness from his eyes; instead, he grips the counter with claws for something to hold onto.

He’s too much of a realist to think that anything will be ok.

He knows that history repeats itself, knows that no amount of Scott’s optimism or Lydia’s smarts or Argent’s guns can stop the supernatural. And Derek knows that he certainly can’t _actually_ help. Hell, he tried that this time, and what good did it do? _Nothing,_ he thinks bitterly, and has to close his eyes so he can’t see his reflection in the mirror. It disgusts him. He tried to be the good guy, tried to be the one who saves instead of kills, and it left him in the exact same place as before. Before he went to South America, before he came back to the town that haunts his dreams and pasts. Two people are dead, just like before. He thinks of Erica and Boyd, dead not even a year ago because of _him,_ and bites his lip so hard that it bleeds. The pain, though temporary, is a relief.

Peter is missing. He almost let a human –Stiles, he reminds himself, an ally now—get shot by a hunter, allowed a demon to trick him into nearly killing Chris Argent, and despite his effort Beacon Hills is in ruins. Aiden is dead. Allison is dead. They were a territorial werewolf and a hunter, sure—but that doesn’t excuse the fact that it is Derek’s fault. _If he had just sniffed out Stiles sooner, fought against the Oni harder, moved a little bit faster._ Yes, they beat the Nogistune. But it’s just one battle in a war, a war that he can’t see ending. He can’t help but wonder what’s next, what new challenge will face Scott’s pack in the coming days, weeks, months, _years._

He can’t bear to sleep in his house that night. It’s hard to wrap his mind around the fact that the scents from the other Hales have long since faded; even though it’s been years, it still makes his wolf ache. The reminder of everything he has lost is the last thing he needs right now. He ends up curled under the rocky cliffs on the edge of Beacon Hills, looking down into the small pricks of light that glow below him from the houses and streetlamps. He can’t help but think that it looks darker than normal.

To say he sleeps would be an overstatement. He nods in and out of a doze, visions of blood and masked spirits and fire flashing through his head. By the time the sun starts to rise over the edge of the horizon, sending tendrils of red into the sky, Derek is already alert and awake. He trudges back to the house, covered in dirt and a few stray leaves that were crushed under the weight of his body as he lay on the ground. His muscles protest each step he takes, and his mind shrieks at him that he should _run away,_ run away from the Hale house and Beacon Hills and everything that has ever hurt him.

He knows that he can never run far enough to escape the demons, though. He can’t leave Beacon Hills, because it’s pointless. His future is bleak no matter where he goes, so running back to South America or New York or even Europe would be worthless. Still, the thoughts that haunt him are enough to make his progress slow, and by the time he rounds the corner and sees a familiar figure standing on his porch, an hour has passed.

“Scott,” he says, knowing the alpha can hear him, and Scott nods. Derek can feel himself tense, trying to read the younger werewolf. Is there trouble already? But Scott hops down from the porch and walks slowly over to Derek. They meet halfway. “What’s going on?”

“Deaton, he—he sent me,” Scott says, and Derek just then smells the waves of barely concealed agony rolling off of his skin. _Allison,_ he thinks, meeting Scott’s eyes, and is surprised when Scott actually looks away. “We’re doing Aiden’s ceremony, tomorrow. Deaton was examining him for the past few days, trying to figure out the exact magic behind the Oni, so that maybe we could defend ourselves against it. But he says he can’t find anything. So we thought…” He trails off, and Derek only manages to nod jerkily.

“Where?” he asks, and Scott shoots him a questioning look. The teen looks exhausted. “Where are you burying him?”

Scott swallows, and the sound practically echoes in the silence. “We’re not. We’re cremating him. Less chance of… well, you know.” Derek _does_ know. After the whole ordeal of Peter coming back after only _just_ being burned to death, it makes sense to burn Aiden all the way into ash. Derek just nods once, his jaw tense and his muscles feeling like rubber bands stretched to their fullest extent. “You should come,” Scott says, and Derek clenches his jaw even tighter.

“Maybe I will,” he says.

He doesn’t. Derek has never been one for fire.

* * *

He’s in the middle of wiping some of the dust off the first floor, which hasn’t been cleaned in years, when he hears the sound of an engine. It’s the day of Aiden’s ceremony, mid-morning, and Derek’s hackles rise automatically at the idea of someone being on his land when all he wants is to be alone. He listens closer, tilting his head just a tad to the side, and the characteristic pants of Stiles’ jeep reach him.

The first thing that hits him is confusion. The noise of the car stops and Derek strides over to the window, peeking past a crack in the blinds to get a view of the outside. Stiles is sitting in his car, fidgeting with the steering wheel and taking deep breaths, and Derek’s confusion intensifies. Why is Stiles here, of all people? He sniffs again, and relaxes just a fraction: Stiles doesn’t have the scent of the demon on him. He just smells like a normal, stressed teenager. Or, well, as normal as the situation of being previously possessed can be viewed.

Confusion turns to bewilderment when, seeming to steel himself, Stiles gets out of the car. He’s holding something in his hand – _a book,_ Derek realizes—and starts making his way up to the steps of the Hale house. Derek stays perfectly still, barely even breathing. He can’t figure out what is going on and he assumes the worst: that Stiles is here to badger him to go to the funeral, or blame him ( _rightly so,_ his mind whispers) for all the death and destruction that’s occurred, or maybe even try to pick a fight. Stiles has never actually been afraid of him, not really, and it makes him unpredictable.

Instead of doing any of those things, Stiles knocks.

Derek seriously considers not answering. After all, it is his house. He could be in the forest, running, for all Stiles knows. He can hear Stiles’ breathing from the other side of the dark wood, the slightly shuffle of clothes as the human fidgets. Derek doesn’t move for a good thirty seconds, just crouches by the window and listens; and Stiles doesn’t move, either. He doesn’t knock again, but he doesn’t leave.

Derek opens the door.

Stiles looks awful. There are deep splotches of darkness under his eyes, which don’t hold the same light as before. He’s thin—Derek can see the bones of his wrists in too much detail—and pale, his hair a messy flop on top of his head. Watching the way that Stiles looks him quickly up and down, Derek realizes he probably doesn’t look much better. They stare at each other for a few beats. Then Stiles offers a weak, fake smile.

“Hey, Sourwolf,” he says, and his voice sounds like cracked paint on a wall. Derek just looks at him, not sure whether to glare or keep his face neutral. He doesn’t want Stiles here and pestering him about going to see Aiden, but he also doesn’t want to scare him away. God knows that Stiles has probably experienced enough trauma for a lifetime. Stiles doesn’t seem to be expecting a reply, anyways: he looks into the dimness behind Derek and then glances up at his face. “Can I come in?”

He says it so casually that Derek has to resist gaping. Instead, he crosses his arms. “What are you doing here, Stiles?” he asks, and he tries to sound tougher than he feels. He hopes the muscles help with that. But to his surprise, Stiles _rolls his eyes._

“The same thing you are.” Derek raises his eyebrows, and Stiles looks down at his hands. Derek gazes down too; Stiles is holding _To Kill A Mockingbird._ When he glances back up, Stiles is still looking down. The human sighs. “I’m avoiding Aiden’s funeral.”

The words hit Derek like a bucket of ice water, and his stance falters slightly. His arms lower slowly to his sides. “Oh,” he manages, and Stiles’ mouth twitches into a semi-smile. Without another word, Derek steps aside. After all, how can he not? Despite how hard he tries, he can’t be heartless. Stiles just drove all the way out to his house, he isn’t trying to get Derek to leave, and Derek knows what it feels like to need an escape. Hell, he lives trying to find one.

Stiles steps inside, and Derek watches as he takes in the sight of the broom and dustpan. “Cleaning?” he asks, and Derek gives a grunt of affirmation. Stiles glances back at him, and there’s no playful twinkle in his eyes like there used to be. It’s one of those things Derek didn’t notice about Stiles; but now that it’s gone, it’s obvious. Stiles motions to the wall by the table near the couch. “Can I… do you mind if I sit in that corner?”

“Sure,” Derek says, and Stiles nods. He’s gripping his book tightly, Derek notices, and he scents the human again. He smells like wet mud and tiredness and some complex, peppery smell that Derek can’t exactly place. It’s something between guilt and sadness. Derek forces himself not to think about it, turning resolutely on his heel and picking up the broom again.

That’s all that happens, that first day. Derek sweeps and Stiles sits in the corner and reads, and they don’t talk. They barely even glance at each other. Stiles may be an ally, and Derek may have tried to save his life, but that doesn’t change the fact that Derek is absolutely abysmal at small talk and that they barely know anything about each other except for the suffocating weight of their pasts. When Stiles gets up and stretches, his bones popping slightly, Derek gets the courage to glance over at him. Stiles is bookmarking _Mockingbird,_ and it’s only when Derek sees how much progress he has made (nearly halfway through) that he realizes it’s been a few hours.

“Bye,” Stiles says, and Derek nods. It’s as simple as that. Stiles leaves, his jeep digging tire traces in the dried up dirt of the Hale property, and Derek watches him secretly from the window until he’s out of sight. He sweeps the corner where Stiles was sitting, but the only thing it does is spread his scent around a little more. It makes him wrinkle his nose, to have someone’s scent here who isn’t family. It’s not like Stiles’ scent is _bad,_ not really, but it’s not a Hale smell. He pushes the thought away. He doubts Stiles will be coming back, anyways.

* * *

Stiles comes back.

This is part of what Derek dislikes about the human, the same unpredictability that’s shone through time after time. It’s irksome. Derek likes to have some illusion of control, at least over who he sees and when, but Stiles isn’t fitting into his wishes.

When the human knocks on his door at 1PM a week after Aiden’s ceremony, Derek doesn’t answer the door at all. In fact, he doesn’t even come downstairs from the second floor. He’s curled up on his bed, trying to fight back the flashes of memories that are threatening to suffocate his sanity, and he has no intention of leaving. In fact, he plans to completely ignore Stiles until he goes away. He has better things to do (or at least, he tells himself that).

Stiles doesn’t go away.

After the first five minutes, the sound of creaking wood whispers past his ears. Stiles has sat down, he realizes. On his porch. Ten minutes pass. Then twenty. Derek can still hear the teenager by the door. His breathing is calm, collected, unlike a week ago. It should be annoying, to know that Stiles is sitting outside on the wood that his father nailed together by hand over forty years ago, Derek realizes. He reasons that he should get out of bed, go downstairs and tell Stiles to _fuck off_. He hasn’t seen any of the others since Scott came by, and he thought that they would get the message. He wants to be left alone, wants to try and figure out how the hell to _cope,_ wants to study every supernatural creature so he can prepare for the worst _without anyone else there._

When he opens the door with a jerky motion and Stiles clambers to his feet, Derek has every single reason to turn him away laid out in an intricate list in his head. Stiles still looks tired, still is too thin, but he isn’t as pale anymore. He’s holding a different book in his hand, and it’s so worn looking (as if it's been read at least ten times by different people) and smells so used that Derek can’t help but try to find the title. From the angle they’re at, he can’t.

“Derek,” Stiles acknowledges, and Derek draws in a breath. _Go away, I need to be alone, you don’t want to be around me, why are you here, I’m the werewolf who couldn’t save anyone and killed two teenagers and changed three, I’m the one who hit your head into your steering wheel, this is my house, you have Scott, GO AWAY._

“What,” he monotones, and Stiles actually smiles at him. He brandishes his book.

“Mind if I come in?” He doesn’t really wait for Derek to reply, just takes a few steps closer, and Derek moves to the side so he can protect his personal bubble. He doesn’t like people touching him, doesn’t like anyone getting too close anymore. Even with Cora, he couldn’t. When Stiles steps over the doorframe, Derek’s logical side questions what on earth he is doing. He remembers the quote: _one is an incident, two is a coincidence_. Let’s hope they don’t get to three: a pattern.

“What are you running from this time?” Derek snips, just to try and get a rise out of Stiles, to maybe scare him away, and Stiles pauses. He turns, and when he looks Derek in the eyes, the werewolf has to stop himself from swallowing. Stiles eyes look too old for how many years he has been on this earth. As the human holds his gaze, eyes unwavering, Derek realizes deep into his very core that Stiles is different. This isn’t the human he’s dealt with before. He’s dealing with someone who has seen hell, and survived it.

“I just wanted a quiet place to think,” Stiles murmurs. “Being around family and Scott is good, sometimes, but… there’s a lot of activity. Didn’t feel like being surrounded, but not alone, either.” Derek nods, unwilling to continue the conversation and already regretting opening his mouth in the first place. He doesn’t want to hear what Stiles has gone through, how he has changed or why he is running, because it increases the guilty weight on his shoulders tenfold.

“Well sit down then,” Derek grunts, and Stiles busies himself with setting up his corner. He watches from the side as the human sits down and crosses his legs in a bumpy motion, burying his face in the book the next moment. He’s holding a pen in his hand and moving it in a frantic motion, back and forth, between two of his fingers. The soft swoosh of air sounds like someone tapping a pencil repeatedly on a desk to Derek’s werewolf ears. Derek stalks over to the couch, grabbing his laptop from the table and settling down onto the leather cushions. He tries to ignore Stiles, who is doing a surprisingly good job at being quiet. Except for the goddamn pen.

For the next few hours, there’s just the scratch of a pencil, gentle breathing, the occasional throat-clearing cough to penetrate the quiet. Derek finds himself relaxing into the silence, just slightly. It’s a relief that Stiles doesn’t seem to want to talk, to ask any questions or make any demands. There’s something that’s been hovering on the edge of Derek’s mind, though, something that he doesn’t understand; it takes him three hours to get the nerves to ask it.

“Why,” he says, and Stiles actually jumps from the sound, the knuckles of his hands going white from how hard he grips his pencil as he looks up at Derek, “did you skip Aiden’s funeral?” Because Derek doesn’t understand why, not at all. He knows that Stiles didn’t _respect_ Aiden—hell, they didn’t like each other _at all._ But it doesn’t fit the human’s normally sentimental nature. At the very least, he expected Stiles to go and support Scott and Lydia.

Stiles lets out a slow breath. The movement of his body stills, and it’s almost eerie. For someone who never stops fidgeting, Stiles is alarmingly unmoving. “I don’t need to see another death that I’ve caused,” he says, and Derek is so surprised that he actually closes his laptop without realizing it.

“It’s not—” Derek starts to say, but Stiles interrupts as his scent spikes with a complex mixture of anger, guilt, and sadness.

“—my fault, I know,” he snaps, and it’s the first real _emotion_ that Derek has seen from the human so far. “That’s what everyone is saying. But you all—you all fought to protect me. I’m the one who opened the door in my mind, who let the Nogitsune in. In the end, it’s my fault.”

“You weren’t the one who did it,” Derek tries, but he knows that it sounds weak.

Stiles glares, opens his mouth to speak, but he only gets out the words, “What about your—” before he’s visibly clamping down on his tongue to stop himself from talking. Derek feels himself rile up, just slightly.

“What?” he snaps, and Stiles shakes his head.

“Nothing.” The words are feeble, as if Stiles doesn’t have the energy in him to fight right now. They’re quiet again, and it’s so awkward that Derek wants to run upstairs and hide. Not exactly alpha material, but he’s somehow known in his heart that he never has been. He was never meant to be an alpha. The thought flashes him back to Erica and Boyd, Allison and Aiden, and his gut twists unpleasantly.

“What’s your book about?” he asks, just to change the topic and make everything stop hurting, and Stiles’ expression slides into confusion before he manages to rearrange it into nonchalance.

“Right now it’s _The Fault In Our Stars,_ ” he says, and Derek raises an eyebrow. Stiles huffs. “It’s—uh, so there’s this girl. Her name is Hazel Grace. She has cancer, but then she falls in love with this boy, Augustus, and he falls in love with her. But then he gets cancer, too. So they’re both sick and dying, but they find comfort in each other, and they end up going on all these adventures. I’m, um, I’m near the end now.”

“It sounds like a chick book,” Derek says, before he can help himself, and to his surprise Stiles laughs.

“Well, no one has ever accused me of being manly,” he says. “Unlike you, Mr. I-do-pushups-in-my-sleep.” And with those words all the tension in the room is broken. Just like that. Derek’s chest doesn’t feel as heavy and the awkwardness has dissipated, and he has absolutely no idea how it happened. All he knows is that he can glare now, and some semblance of normalcy has been reached. He lets out a low growl, letting his eyes flash, and just gets a snort in return. “Nice try, Sourwolf. Anyways, I’m kind of afraid to see the ending.”

“Why?” Curiosity will be Derek’s downfall.

“I think something bad is going to happen.” Derek doesn’t really have a reply to that; partly because he doesn’t care, and partly because he doesn’t want to have to continue talking. So he goes back to his laptop.

It’s another hour before Stiles gets up, bones popping in protest from his position on the floor. When he reaches the door, he seems to hesitate. Derek can hear his heart skip as Stiles turns back around to face him. “I wasn’t sure that you were going to let me in,” the human admits, and Derek won’t glance up from his laptop to look at him. He keeps his eyes glued on the screen, unseeing. He can hear Stiles shift from foot to foot. “So, um, thanks. For, you know, letting me sit on the floor.”

“Yeah,” Derek grunts out. He is so not good at this.

“Scott and Isaac are doing some werewolf things tomorrow. They told me to invite you,” Stiles tells him, and Derek feels his jaw twitch. He can’t tell if Stiles is being purposefully vague to tempt him, or if he already knows that Derek doesn’t want to go.

“I can’t make it.”

“Could I come over again tomorrow then?” Stiles asks, the words rushed, and Derek freezes. He has no idea what to say. The truth of the matter is that he actually didn’t _mind_ having Stiles there. To have another living, breathing creature with him in the house that has held nothing but death—well, it reminded him a bit that he is still alive. But he isn’t going to tell Stiles that, because it would be better for both of them if Stiles never came back. He needs his relationship with Scott, his pack, and his friends to be purely professional. He’ll help them out, they’ll help him out, and he’ll protect his house and his old territory. Letting other people into his world in any other way is complicated and dangerous. The less people he touches, the less people die.

“That… might not be a good idea,” he mumbles, barely loud enough for his own ears, and Stiles takes a step forward with a clueless look on his face.

“What? Sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

“I said sure!” Derek snaps, and then has to resist the urge to slap his hand over his own mouth. He chances a glance at Stiles, who looks just as surprised as Derek feels. But the teen gets this goofy look on his face, like he’s trying to grin but hasn’t in a long time so his facial muscles can’t quite put it together, and Derek can’t bring himself to regret the words.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Stiles says, and Derek can’t do anything but blink as his front door closes.

* * *

When Stiles arrives the next day, Derek is pretty much a mess. He’s been worked up ever since Stiles left yesterday, going over the moment that he agreed to the visit in his head countless times. He’s nearly dizzy from it. He’s nervous and it pisses him off, because he shouldn’t be, not about having some puny human come over and read silently in the corner. Druids, vampires, evil demon spirits: _those_ are the things to be nervous about. Not Stiles.

When the human knocks, Derek doesn’t even bother getting up off the couch. After all, he hasn’t left the house so there was no reason to lock the door after his run this morning. He’s been sitting there for hours, aimlessly browsing on his laptop for something to distract himself. “Come in,” he calls, and there’s a moment of scruffing noises before Stiles opens the door. He’s holding a notebook today, Derek notices, and a small plastic bag is slung over his shoulder. He has a new book with him, the binding a deep blue and the pages crisp white.

“Hi,” Stiles says, and there’s a faint honey smell about him. _It smells good,_ Derek’s wolf thinks, before he can stop himself, and he makes a mental note to reexamine that thought later. “I brought lunch.” He scuttles over to where Derek is sitting, rummaging around in the plastic bag. Derek almost smirks when Stiles pulls out a sandwich, clearly homemade, wrapped in plastic. At the look on his face, Stiles rolls his eyes. “I’m not a housewife, Derek. What were you expecting? I just threw this together. Take the damn sandwich.”

“Planning on staying long?” Derek asks, taking it, and has to resist the urge to open it and examine the contents. He likes knowing exactly what’s in his food. It smells like roast beef and provolone, maybe, and Derek wonders how Stiles knew what he likes.

“If that’s ok,” Stiles says, and it sounds too casual. Forced. Derek can see the veins in Stiles’ neck pulsing. He’s so _alive,_ so easy to read right now from the beat of his heart and the blood in his body. He’s nervous. Still. He seems to be in a good mood, today.

Derek surprises himself. “Yeah,” he consents.

Stiles sits in the corner, as always, and Derek returns to his laptop. Stiles is spreading out a few materials on the floor: his new book, the notepad, and two different colored pencils. They fall into unobtrusive company for each other again, as always, and Derek nearly forgets that Stiles is there until the faint smell of pain drifts towards him. He glances up; Stiles is on his knees, leaning over the book while writing on the paper in a blue pencil, and Derek realizes that it’s probably the human’s back that’s bothering him. He’s been on the floor for about an hour now. For the first time, Derek grasps that it’s probably incredibly uncomfortable.

It takes him ten minutes to get the courage to speak. “You can use the table, if you want,” he states, and Stiles looks up with slightly bigger eyes.

“Really?” he asks, and Derek just raises an eyebrow at him.

“Do you have ears?” he snips, but Stiles just grins.

“Thanks!” he says, and it is so genuine that Derek can’t help but wonder how easy it is to please the teen. If he’s this happy about having a table to put his stuff on, it can’t be hard. Stiles flops down across the table from him, a good three feet of space between them. It’s nonetheless enough to make Derek’s skin prickle, the idea of a potential threat to his space noted quietly in the back of his mind. But it’s tolerable. He opens up his sandwich for something to do with his hands, and examines it closely. He looks up when Stiles chuckles lightly, and when they meet eyes Derek is glaring.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Stiles says quickly, and dips his head. “I just—I was thinking about ravens.” Derek raises an eyebrow, and Stiles hurriedly continues. “Ravens are known to be afraid of their food. They’ll find a piece of bread, or maybe a bag of chips, and they have to hop around and poke at it a few times before they get the balls to eat it. They just assume it’s dangerous, until proven otherwise.”

Derek is unimpressed. “You’re comparing me to a raven?”

Stiles snorts. “Don’t be stupid, Sourwolf. You’re clearly the wolfiest werewolf in the pack of wolfy werewolf wolves. Of Beacon Hills. You can’t be a wolfy werewolf and a raven.”

“That sentence made no sense,” Derek replies, but he can’t manage to sound annoyed. It’s the most he’s heard Stiles say in a while, one of the few jokes he has cracked since he showed up eight days ago on his doorstep.

“Do you know what else makes no sense?” Stiles asks, and Derek wants to nod and say _You, Stiles. You make no sense._ But instead he just makes a noise that is a cue to go on. “Mermaids. Mermaids make no sense.”

“What?” Derek drones, and Stiles motions to the book he’s been reading.

“I started this last night. It’s a history of various supernatural creatures. Ghosts, spirits, werewolves,” he actually winks at Derek, who glowers at him, “and some vampires. Hell, even special elemental salamanders. And all that made sense. But now I’m on the mermaid chapter, and it’s the most confusing thing in the history of confusing.”

“Why are you reading all that?” Derek can’t help but lean forward to get a better look at the book. He’s heard of a few collections of materials, but he’s never really seen any outside of the library or internet. Internally, he winces at the idea of how many facts the authors probably got incorrect. Most of what he knows has been passed down from his family or Deaton, and he’s not sure if he trusts a random book yet.

“I just want to be prepared,” Stiles admits after a few moments.

“Most of that stuff probably isn’t right,” Derek tells him, and Stiles’ expression flicks to one of annoyance.

“Well, how else am I supposed to know? I’m kind of a human with very limited experience in the history of supernatural creatures, if you didn’t notice. Don’t exactly have a PhD in Scary-shit-that-comes-to-Beacon-Hills, do I?” Derek actually feels his mouth twitch up slightly but rearranges his face within seconds.

“Don’t believe everything you read.” Stiles rolls his eyes, and Derek ignores him in favor of taking a bite of his food, which he has deemed acceptable. It’s some of the first real food he’s had in a few days, he realizes, and his stomach rumbles quietly at the thought. He hates to admit it, but the sandwich is decent. The tomatoes are sliced unevenly and the lettuce is a bit wilted, but still. It’s not bad.

Stiles is staring at him again, seeming lost in thought, and Derek lets out a growl to snap him out of it. With a blush, the human ducks his head again and goes back to his book. His sandwich is still in the plastic bag, untouched, and it makes Derek curious. “Aren’t you going to eat?” he asks, and Stiles glances up. He’s closed off again.

“Not hungry,” he mumbles, and then looks back down again. Derek chews, frowning slightly to himself, as he takes in Stiles’ body. The teen is still thinner than normal, and not in a healthy way. _Stop thinking about it,_ he scolds himself. Whatever. Not Derek’s problem, not at all. Stiles is a big boy, and it’s none of the werewolf’s business what he does with his body. Derek knows that the Sheriff and Scott wouldn’t let Stiles starve, anyways. He must honestly just not be hungry.

His thoughts are interrupted by the steady increase in Stiles’ pulse. Derek glances at him, and watches as Stiles seems to focus on breathing in and out for a few moments. He’s staring at the book, still, but his eyes aren’t moving. It’s only when he speaks up that Derek understands that the human was preparing himself.

“So,” he begins, “um, if I can’t believe everything I read, how am I supposed to know, right? I thought that this would help out the pack, maybe, you know; bit if it’s just worthless information, it could probably get someone else killed. So. I know that you’re really good at all this stuff, werewolves and things. Maybe I could—well, I have some stuff highlighted. Maybe we could, I don’t know, team up and figure out if it’s right or wrong? I could read it to you and you can give me feedback.” He glances up and something on Derek’s face must make him panic, because he starts rushing his words. “Because that would be beneficial for everyone, you know. Like _you_ get to have people who know how to fight and help you, while _we_ learn how to fight and help. Then you don’t have to be scrambling to explain things in the moment, and we won’t be so caught off guard.”

It’s not a bad idea, and Derek knows it. It _would_ be better for all of them. Information is at least 50% of the battle this time around, and most of them are severely lacking it. By working with Stiles, he can hit two birds with one stone. Still, though. That would require him to have Stiles come over again, to spend time with the human. Stiles makes him feel nervous, and he doesn’t really know how to deal with it.

Logic wins. “Ok,” he says, and Stiles’ scent spikes with surprise. Derek shuts his laptop and turns to face Stiles, giving him his full attention. “Start at the beginning, then.”

The shuffle of the book pages is oddly comforting, and as Stiles clears his throat and starts to read, Derek can’t help but wonder what the hell he is getting himself into.

* * *

_This is insane. I’m insane,_ Derek thinks. They’ve been working on the book for about two weeks, spread out over three visits. Stiles always comes over with sandwiches, and he’s stuck to roast beef and provolone for Derek every single time. Derek doesn’t know what kind of sandwich Stiles has, can only guess that it’s turkey and Swiss, because Stiles never opens it. It just sits alongside him like some forgotten fruit, a fourth wheel. Today is no different; as Stiles sits down, he tosses Derek his sandwich and then shoves his to the side, pulling out the notebook that’s filled with his scratchy handwriting.

“So we were on berserkers, right?” he asks, and Derek nods. They dive right in, and for a few hours they work diligently. Derek stands up to get a glass of water when Stiles pauses to write a long paragraph on witches, because he feels awkward just sitting there watching. It’s been easier to be around Stiles, since they’ve spent a lot of time together recently, but Derek is still terrible at social interaction. As he fills up a glass at the sink, he glances back into the living room and sees Stiles send a look over to his uneaten sandwich, still in the bag. Derek gathers his courage and grabs a second cup for the cupboard. _It’s just water_ , he tells himself, but when he walks back over to the couch his hands are shaking the tiniest bit.

“Let’s take a lunch break,” he says, and Stiles looks up at him in surprise when Derek holds out the glass for him to take.

“Oh, er, ok,” the teen says, and he takes it delicately. Their hands don’t touch, and something in Derek’s chest tightens because of it. It doesn’t make any sense; he doesn’t _want_ to be touched, hasn’t since the fire. _Are you sure?_ his wolf whispers, the faintest noise in his mind, and he shrugs it off. As he unwraps his sandwich, he can’t help but notice that Stiles still isn’t doing the same to his.

“You never eat your sandwich,” he observes, and Stiles actually flushes. It’s a blotchy flush, one that colors his cheeks and ears but not the rest of his face, and Derek can’t help at stare. The heat underneath the human’s skin fascinates his wolf.

“Not hungry,” Stiles retorts, and Derek scents him.

“You smell hungry.”

Stiles groans, dramatic as always. “You werewolves seriously need to stop invading people’s scent bubbles.”

Derek tenses and glowers. “We can’t exactly help it. Half the time I’m trying my best to _not_ smell things.”

“I know, I know,” Stiles assents, and takes a large gulp of his water. “Scott complains about it all the time.”

It’s a good transition into something Derek has been wondering, and he gets distracted. “Where is Scott, anyways?” He’s been able to smell him on Stiles, along with Lydia and the Sheriff, but he hasn’t seen him for almost a month. Normally, he and Stiles are inseparable.

Stiles shrugs. “Around.”

“Thanks,” Derek drawls, and Stiles glares at him.

“That’s all I know. I saw him yesterday, but today he couldn’t hang out. Or, whatever the hell you would call either playing video games to try and distract ourselves or discussing the things that you and I are going over. Everyone is really busy, you know. I think he, Deaton, and Isaac are doing some weird voodoo training thing so they can learn how to ward off other Kitsunes that might come to try and challenge Kira for her territory.” He barks out a laugh. “Wow, I never thought I would be saying something like that.”

“Why aren’t you there with them?” Derek asks, because it’s something that’s burning in his chest. “What about Lydia, your Dad?”

Stiles is quiet for a few moments. “Lydia is… well. I mean, what can you expect, you know? Aiden and Allison… that’s a lot to lose at once.” Derek shifts uncomfortably, but Stiles continues on. “She’s been spending a lot of time with her family, I don’t want to intrude. And my dad is doing is his best to deal with all of this stuff but… well. He and I need space from each other, sometimes. I know that he goes over old cases when I’m not around, so me being here gives him a chance to do that without feeling guilty.”

“Guilty?” Derek clarifies, and Stiles nods.

“Yeah, like… I think everyone feels like they need to give me their full attention when I’m with them, you know? I can’t just, like… sit and watch TV with my dad anymore. No one lets me just hang out, except Scott. Dad likes to talk all the time or ask how I am and I just…” Stiles trails off, and Derek understands all too well. He remembers Laura, after the fire, asking him over and over again how he was. It was the same when he found Cora again: he was so concerned about her that he didn’t give her a moment’s peace. No wonder she stayed in South America.

“It’s too much,” Derek fills in for him, and Stiles looks relieved to have someone else talk.

“Yeah.” The teenager glances down at his notes. “So, hey, um, breaking news. We finished the book.” The change of subject is more than welcome. Derek leans forward and looks. It’s true. Every page, every single word has been analyzed and corrected and confirmed. They’re done. When he looks back up, Stiles seems just as surprised. “Wow. I guess it shows what we can do with a few days of spare time, yeah?”

“Even if most of the information is bullshit,” Derek remarks, and Stiles lets out a surprised laugh. The sound makes Derek’s toes feel warm, and he sucks in a breath. He notices for the first time that Stiles’ scent had undertones of cinnamon in it. If they were friends, if Stiles was pack, he would tease the human about it. But they’re _not,_ he reminds himself—and when did it become necessary to do that, remind himself that Stiles is a human from a different pack who he’s just working with?

“I guess I’ll take off, then,” Stiles says, and Derek doesn’t reply. He doesn’t want to say anything. Because he suddenly dislikes the idea that Stiles has to leave, and that thought might come out of his mouth if he opens it. As Stiles gets up and rolls his shoulders to loosen them, Derek finds himself standing as well. He remembers Stiles’ uneaten sandwich only when the teen picks it up off the floor, resolutely not looking at Derek as he does so. Derek stalks over to the door as the teen stacks his book and notepad under his arm, and the cold metal of the new doorknob he installed the other day makes Derek shiver slightly. He turns it slowly, slower than necessary or normal, but for some reason it’s hard. He jerks back when Stiles walks by him, terrified that they’ll brush shoulders.

“Right, well.” The human turns, stands on the porch and shifts his weight from foot to foot. Derek leans against the doorframe, trying to look unimpressed. “I’ll see you around, then.”

“Yeah,” Derek replies, because what else is he supposed to say? _Despite my glaring, Stiles, I actually didn’t hate your company. I maybe want you to stay for a little while, so we can sit in silence as I try to figure out what to say and you ponder how the hell you ended up in the house of a werewolf with major psychological issues. Sound good?_

“Ok,” Stiles says in a breath, but he still stands there for a few seconds. But then he shakes his head, as if to clear it, and shoots Derek a half-hearted smile. As he walks down the steps, Derek gives into his voice.

“Stiles,” he calls, and the teen turns quickly to look at him.

“Yeah?” There’s the trace of hope in his voice, and Derek wonders why. Stiles can’t be wanting the same thing he does, because what Derek wants is insane. He wants to invite the human back inside, ask him to stay. But he can’t come up with an excuse, and it sounds horribly stupid anyways. Why would Stiles want to spend time with him? The entire reading thing was just to help their packs, help them prepare for the future. They aren’t _friends._ Allies, sure. But nothing more, Derek tells himself.

“Whatever happened in that book? The one with the cancer?” It’s the first question he can think of, and he doesn’t bother to analyze why that was on the tip of his tongue. He regrets it the instant that Stiles’ face darkens though, as if being reminded of something unpleasant.

“Augustus dies,” he says, simply, and Derek watches as he gets into his car and drives away down the dirt road, kicking up dust with the tires.

The sense of loss that hits Derek when Stiles leaves makes him want to scream. When he goes back into his house, he growls angrily and throws the half of his sandwich that he hasn’t eaten into the trash. He doesn’t understand why he practically feels like mourning, like punching his fist through the wall and tearing up the wood underneath his feet. He has to do a vigorous round of dishes before he can really understand why he’s feeling the way he does in the first place. The human has been a living, breathing presence for the past few weeks, something that Derek only now recognizes has been keeping him grounded. It’s not as if he’ll never see Stiles again, he reminds himself, trying to calm down from his illogical emotional state. It’s better this way. Derek functions better alone, he tells himself. He’s meant to be on his own.

* * *

He’s in the locker room at Beacon Hills, and Stiles is there. Everything is hazy, as if someone just took a shower, but nothing is wet. “What’s going on?” he mutters, and Stiles looks at him with blank eyes.

“You were the one who called me here, Sourwolf.” His voice sounds different, somehow. He’s standing and Derek is sitting—wait, why is he sitting? How did he even get here? It’s confusing. He doesn’t understand anything that’s going on, and his mind feels thick and heavy. Each second feels too long, and it only worsens when he and Stiles talk about dreams, and Kate, and not waking up. And then he thinks he wakes up –oh god, it’s Kate, she’s a monster, how is she alive? Derek feels like his brain is combusting—before _bam,_ he wakes up _again._

It takes ten minutes of retching into the sink and a bucket of cold water for Derek to convince himself that he is actually awake, now. This is real. Kate wasn’t. He breathes into the cool night air of the woods that drifts through his bathroom’s cracked window ( _he should fix that,_ he thinks). He searches for anything to anchor him, comfort him; but nothing’s there.

He has nothing.

The next night, he dreams of Kate again. It’s fucking terrifying, to have a dream within a dream. He remembers Scott mentioning that it happened to Stiles when the Nogitsune started to possess him, and he searches frantically through the hazy memory of his dream lands to make sure he didn’t open any doors. In all of his dreams, there aren’t any doors to open. Just the cold locker room, and Stiles; the loft stained with blood, and Kate. He can’t even begin to imagine how Stiles must have felt, dreaming like this every single night for _months_ on end. The mere idea of it makes him want to empty the contents of his stomach into the basin, but he forces himself to stay in bed until the sun rises. He needs to calm down, because he’s not possessed. That he is sure of. He’s just… broken. Broken so much that even his dreams show it.

When the first rays of light hit the covers, he allows himself the pleasure of getting up.

It’s been two days since he’s seen Stiles, and Derek doesn’t expect to see him again anytime soon. Not until he maybe heads into town, or Scott texts him, or Deaton needs some information that Derek might have. There’s absolutely no reason for them to meet in any way whatsoever.

So, naturally, as things always are with Stiles, he catches Derek off guard: he shows up on his doorstep.

Derek stands at the edge of his kitchen, disbelieving, as he hears the telltale signs of Stiles’ jeep making its way down the road. It’s early morning, maybe 7AM, and Derek smells the eggs before he smells Stiles. A mere two minutes later, there’s a knock at the door. He yanks it open too fast, too desperately, and takes in Stiles in the morning light. The sun is casting the shadows of the house over them both, but it brings out the honey color in Stiles’ eyes. He looks nervous, shuffling like he always does when he isn’t sure of himself, but there is determination in the set of his jaw. He’s holding an egg burrito like a weapon, clenched firmly in his hand, and it’s such a contrast to everything Derek knows about Stiles that he almost laughs. In his other hand, there’s a book.

“Ok,” Stiles rushes, before Derek can even say _hello,_ “so last night I was reading this book, right? It was about this dog, and he has this master who does race car driving. And the whole thing is from the dog’s perspective. And as I was reading it, I was thinking, _Wow, this is really good. This is cool. Who thought to write a book from a dog’s point of view?_ And then I was like, huh, Derek would probably like this, because it’s about cars, and you have a fancy car. But I don’t have the money to buy another copy of the book. So I stopped reading it, and instead I read a book about Helen Keller, who is really kickass by the way, and now I’m here and I have the book about the dog. And I was thinking that if you want, I could read it to you, and you could eat this burrito as I do. Because I don’t have anything to do today and I want to know the end of the story, but I don’t want to read it alone, and I couldn’t buy you your own copy. And the burrito needs to be eaten by someone, and you never have food.”

Stiles bites his lip, as if to physically force himself to stop talking, and stares at Derek with nervous eyes. Derek opens his mouth to reply, closes it, and then takes a breath in. Stiles talked so fast that it was hard to keep up, but Derek understands what this is. It’s an offer for companionship, even if it’s in the simplest form. Derek glances at the book in his hand: _The Art of Racing in the Rain,_ it reads, and it’s just intriguing enough to force him to make up his mind. “Ok,” he replies, and the smile that greets his words is blinding.

Stiles scrambles through the door and Derek follows him to the couch, not surprised when Stiles sits on his characteristic spot on the floor. For some reason, Derek can’t tear his eyes away from the pulse point on Stiles’ neck. Maybe because he was never expecting to see it again, here in his house. Maybe because he’s surprised any of them are still alive at all anymore.

Derek isn’t expecting the teen to toss the burrito, and it nearly hits him in the face but he manages to catch it with a growl. Stiles snorts, but Derek sees that his hands are shaking as he opens up the book. _He’s nervous,_ Derek realizes, and the fact that Stiles feels the same way as he does makes everything infinitely better. As he settles into the couch, he watches the way Stiles’ eyes flicker in a steady cycle between the werewolf’s face and the first page of the book.

Stiles clears his throat. “Ready?” he asks, and Derek nods. He tries to relax into the cushions, and Stiles shifts slightly so he’s crossed legged on the floor. “Ok.” He takes a deep breath in. Derek waits.

“ _Chapter one. Gestures are all I have; sometimes they must be grand in nature…_ ”

Derek lets the sound of Stiles’ voice wash over him, growing steadier with every word, and feels a knot in the depths of his body loosen.


	2. Worth Holding

“If one reads enough books one has a fighting chance. Or better, one’s chances of survival increase with each book one reads.”  
**— Sherman Alexie**

Derek thinks about the book for the next week straight. His mind wanders to it during the in-betweens, when he isn’t doused in self-loathing or insecurity or the heavy labor that he’s now doing in order to fix up the house. It took them three days to finish, with Stiles coming every other day, and when it ended Derek had to (silently) admit that Stiles was right: the werewolf had enjoyed it. He tells himself that it was just because the book is good, not because it was Stiles reading it to him. It wasn’t the company, he insists mentally, it was the content. Because, as Derek has told himself many times, he is _meant_ to be a loner. He doesn’t _like_ other people; he _tolerates_ them.

Still, when Stiles shows up a few hours later with _The Maze Runner_ in his hands, Derek feels a warmth spread into his cheeks and lets him in. They finish _The Maze Runner_ (“Thomas is such an idiot, I would hate to be him,” Stiles says at the end, and Derek can’t help but roll his eyes), then a week later Stiles flips the last page of _A Thousand Splendid Sons_ (“Did you know he wrote _The Kite Runner,_ too, Derek?”—and of course when he doesn’t know what _that_ is, they have to read it too). By the end of the month, they’ve added _Eragon,_ which both of them agreed they didn’t like because why the hell would a dragon care about a puny human (“We’re like squirrels to them, I bet,” Stiles comments halfway through, as Derek swallows a large bite of another egg burrito) and _The Perks of Being a Wallflower,_ which was just plain depressing and awkward for both of them.

“I’ll bring a better book tomorrow,” Stiles promises, as if it’s his fault that the last two books didn’t work out well for them, and Derek just huffs and makes him go home with the other half of his egg burrito. Stiles still hasn’t really gained more than a few pounds back yet, and it worries Derek. He seems to be in an OK mood most days, better than the day after Aiden’s funeral, but Derek sees him often enough to know that he isn’t back to the old Stiles at all yet. In fact, now that he thinks about it, Derek sees Stiles almost every other day, sometimes a few days in a row. He comes at all different times, never really predictable (the only that _is_ predictable about Stiles is his unpredictability), but the fact that he will be on Derek’s doorstep has become somewhat of a certainty for the werewolf.

Just like he promised, the next day Stiles shows up bright and early with a book clutched in his hands. Half the time, when Derek hears the car, he just opens the door and leaves it like that so Stiles can walk in without having to call him. He does so today, just leaves the door open and busies himself at the kitchen counter with filling up some water glasses.

As soon as Stiles steps into the Hale house, his eyes widen. Derek tore out two of the walls yesterday after Stiles left, wound up from another dream with Kate in the middle of the night. He did a hasty sweep this morning, thinking that Stiles would probably be over, but the change and mess is still drastic. Everything looks more open, brighter even with the dust sprinkling it. Derek waits for Stiles’ reaction—and why the hell is he doing that? It’s _his_ house, not Stiles’; why does he care about what Stiles thinks?

“Wow,” Stiles says, and Derek’s head jerks to his face. It’s not the words that cause his throat to tighten, but something else entirely. Alarm courses through his body like a lightning strike and he feels his claws come out slightly, his eyes flashing. What the hell is wrong with Stiles’ voice—

Judging by the look on Stiles’ face, he’s noticed Derek’s confusion. He wrinkles his nose. “I’m sick, douchebag. Don’t gut me alive because I’ve lost my voice. I don’t need more humiliation.” His voice is stringy and weak, as if his vocal chords have failed, and he shuffles over to the floor without looking over at Derek again. The werewolf relaxes slightly, but he keeps his claws out, sniffing. _Oh,_ he thinks, and lets himself shift back fully to human. Stiles _is_ sick—it smells like strep throat, maybe, or some type of throat irritation.

“What happened?” Derek asks, because he’s been getting better at small talk and learning how to ask questions. Stiles flops down on the floor and gives a dramatic sniff, setting the book down on the table.

“Cold,” he rasps, and seems startled at Derek’s disbelieving expression. “What?”

“I don’t think it’s a cold,” Derek says slowly, and Stiles tilts his head. Understanding hits the teen, and his mouth opens in horror, eyes widening. It’s almost comical.

“Oh, god, don’t tell me you can _smell_ whatever’s wrong with me—”

“If it afflicted you this quick and my nose is right, it seems like Strep,” Derek tells him, and a look of horror crosses Stiles’ face.

“Oh god,” he moans, and his voice cracks horribly at each syllable and he buries his face in his hands. “And my dad drank from my milk glass today—oh _no._ ”

Derek snorts. “Thanks for worrying about me catching it, too. Very nice of you.” Stiles throws his burrito at him, and Derek catches it easily. Stiles glares, before his expression falters to one of—what is that? Concern?

“Can werewolves catch this?” he asks, and Derek shakes his head. He’s never suffered even the smallest of a cold in his life, let alone something more serious. Werewolf sickness is much different than human sickness, and the viruses needed to infect him wouldn’t be something Stiles carries. Stiles lets out a little noise in the back of his throat and looks at the space where the walls used to be again. “I like it,” he says, and Derek has to remember that Stiles must be commenting on the walls. Or lack thereof. Stiles does that a lot: jumps from topic to topic, then back to the first again. It’s his ADHD showing through, Derek knows, and it makes him wonder if Stiles is forgetting to take his medication when it happens more often than normal during one of his visits. “What made you decide to do it?”

Derek shrugs. “I don’t know,” he lies, and Stiles looks closely at his face for a moment before letting it be.

“Well, I brought _Harry Potter,_ ” Stiles says, changing topics once more, and Derek looks at the book sitting on the table. Stiles seems to be waiting for a reaction, but Derek has none. He’s never heard of the book before. “Oh, god. Please tell me that you know what _Harry Potter_ is. The boy who lived? Wizards? Professor Dumbledore?” he demands, and Derek shakes his head. Stiles groans. “You are a savage.”

“Let’s read it, then, if it’s so great,” Derek snaps, and Stiles shifts to make himself comfortable. Derek sits across from him on the couch, like always; but when he sees the way Stiles’ throat contacts uncomfortably when he swallows, he feels something akin to pity rush through him. It’s not like him to ask, but he does. “Can you still read? With your voice?”

Stiles tilts his head, as if he didn’t even think about it. “I think so. Let’s try. I mean, if you can handle the sound of this attempt at speaking,” he tries to joke, and Derek blinks at him. Stiles didn’t bother to consider whether or not he was too sick to come over, Derek realizes. Stiles came even though he probably feels like shit, his throat burning and his body exhausted. He came to read with his raw voice, because he told Derek he would.

When Derek is silent for a moment, the teen takes it as confirmation and opens his mouth to start. Derek interrupts him. “Sit,” he blurts out, and Stiles stops and looks at him like he’s insane. Derek feels his ears heat up. “On the couch,” he clarifies. “You won’t have to talk as loud.” Stiles stares at him for three full seconds before he seems to register that Derek actually said those words. Truthfully, Derek is astonished at himself, too. He’s not used to going out of his way for non-family, non-pack like that. When Stiles plops down on the couch, Derek scoots so that there’s still about two feet of space between them. He’s thankful that Stiles doesn’t comment, doesn’t do anything but open up the book again.

“Alright. Chapter one. Here we go. _Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much,_ ” he says, and Derek has to resist the urge to close his eyes as his pulse starts to settle again.

* * *

Their reading is interrupted for a few weeks by the appearance of a shapeshifter in the Beacon Hills Hospital (honestly, why don’t these people _move_? he questions as he races through the halls, which now remind him of Hogwarts Castle because of how many goddamn stairs there are, not that he’ll ever admit that to Stiles, ever). It takes a few magic spells, some banshee screams, and a very angry Isaac to corner the thing in the basement. Stiles is holding onto a bat, shoved behind Scott sometime during the chase, and Derek is secretly glad that he’s not in harm’s way. Derek and Scott crouch by the doorway, while Argent points his gun at the creature’s throat. It’s the first time Derek has seen anyone but Stiles for over a month, but they fall into the actions of a team rather effortlessly. They all share the determination and dedication to catch this thing.

Everything is tense, everyone on edge and practically trembling out of their skins. Next to him, Scott smells like misery. He can sense Stiles’ agony in the short pants of his breathing. Even Derek feels sick to his stomach.

Because the shapeshifter looks like Allison.

“Why does it look like her?” Scott says, his voice a whine of pain, and Derek can’t help but wonder the same thing. The thing turns to him, still wearing Allison’s face.

“It searches your memories and looks for the thing you fear the most,” Stiles whispers behind them, and it rings a bell for Derek. They learned that together, reading the book. It’s good to know the authors were right, but horrible to learn it hands-on.

“She’s not what I’m most afraid of,” Scott growls, his brow furrowing, but Derek knows whose fear it is with a rush of clarity. The others seem to realize it at the same time. They all glance at Argent, and his face is steely. Because the only thing that’s worse than having your daughter murdered is having to kill her yourself. If Allison rose from the ground and started attacking everyone, Argent would have no choice but to eliminate her. The shapeshifter is making his nightmare come true.

Yet despite all this, Argent is the first one who moves. Derek doesn’t know how he does it, how he compartmentalizes so well. Derek can fake it, sure—but when _his_ family died, he ended up just as broken on the inside as Scott looks on the outside. “You’re disgusting,” Argent grits out, holding his gun with both hands, and the shapeshifter just hisses at him. It may look like Allison, but it isn’t, and Argent was never one to let emotion rule him. He shoots it, a perfect hit right at the heart, and as she falls Scott whimpers and Derek sees Stiles flinch. Derek doesn’t move; partly because he feels like he doesn’t have the right to show weakness, and partly because his leg is _killing_ him. The shifter had to claw her way past him to get down one of the staircases, and it’s only now starting to stitch itself back together. He thinks one of his bones might have broken, maybe his rib.

Argent doesn’t smell like misery, just steady willpower, and a rush of gratitude hits Derek that they aren’t enemies anymore. “Alright,” the man grunts, watching as the image of Allison in front of them slowly fades into a creature covered in blood-red scales. “Let’s take this thing to Deaton. Come on, I only need one of you.” Scott and Derek look at each other, and Derek is about to volunteer when Scott just shakes his head and steps forward. They both understand that this is Scott’s battle, really. This thing imitated Allison, and that means that Scott gets to call the shots. Hell, Derek doesn’t _want_ to call the shots on these things anymore. When he last did, two werewolves died and three humans were almost sacrificed.

He turns on his heel and stalks pasts Stiles, already seeing red as he flashes back to Boyd’s death and Erica’s limp body. The stairs up to the first floor already feel too crowded. He hears Stiles say something behind him, and twitches his head back so he can hear through all the white noise in his head. “Derek!” Stiles says again, calling him back, and Derek wants to listen. He wants to go to Stiles, to comfort him somehow, maybe find comfort in return. But he can’t, because he _has to get out of here._

When he gets home, he sets a cup of water on to boil. He doesn’t really know why, but for some reason the motion seems right. He has to think about it, before a few memories start floating back. When they do, it scares him that he ever forgot in the first place. It’s something his mother used to do, that he knows. The memory makes his already aching chest feel a bit heavier. Broken bone? Tea. Bad day? Tea. Fight? Tea. He’s had all the above, and tea is all he has.

He’s pouring two cups before he comprehends it, and it makes him stop completely. It’s as if his brain has actually halted, like a big red stop light reading “Consider Your Current Life Situation” has popped up in his head. He’s pouring a cup for Stiles, who isn’t even _here._ Who won’t be here for a while. But— even the fact that he thinks “a while,” not “ever again,” makes his conflict double. It’s as if Stiles visiting him at some point is a given. He is so used to the teen’s presence that his subconscious doesn’t even realize he’s _gone,_ and when he isn’t here, his brain just _assumes_ he will be before the water cools _._

He takes his tea and sits down on the couch, wincing at the tendrils of pain that ricochet through his body at the movement. It’s not enough to distract him, and he keeps thinking about Stiles. The human isn’t pack, but he also isn’t an acquaintance. He’s not family, but he feels, deep inside Derek’s chest, like more than an ally. Is Stiles his… friend? Derek would be lying to himself if he claimed to know what a friend looked like. He hasn’t had friends ever since the Hale fire—hell, ever since he got involved with Kate. Thinking her name makes him twitch, the visual of her licking his abs while he was chained up sending revolt shooting down to his toes. He squeezes his eyes shut, tries to focus. Stiles. It’s true that Stiles hasn’t been annoying Derek lately, not like he used to. In fact, on the days he hasn’t been visiting, Derek has felt… loney? The word, when he finds it, surprises him. Is that what happens with friends? He tries to remember what it was like to have friends, to have people there for him who he trusted, and he can’t. All that comes to mind is Stiles’ face, and his voice, and every single book they have read together. Even the shitty ones.

Derek feels warm, and it’s not because of the tea.

It’s 2 A.M. and he’s still awake, thinking about the mess that’s his life, when he hears something outside. Every single one of his muscles tenses and he freezes on the couch, his claws coming out instinctively. He turns his head to listen. The sound is getting louder, and when it comes close enough to identify Derek can’t believe it.

It’s Stiles’ jeep.

Derek yanks open the door as Stiles pulls up, the light from his car the only thing breaking through the thick darkness around them. He can see just fine, but he knows that Stiles can’t. Derek turns on the newly-installed porch light for him, because his mind isn’t functioning well enough to do anything else. As Stiles clambers out of his car and opens the passenger door to grab a comically large bag, Derek can’t do anything but stand on his porch and watch. Stiles is _here._ He came to see him at _two in the goddamn morning._ And, what’s more, he knew that Derek would be awake.

“Why aren’t you asleep?” Derek demands as soon as Stiles gets within earshot, and he winces internally. The drama of the day has made him forget any semblance of politeness that he’s learned over the past weeks.

Stiles doesn’t even seem insulted. “I don’t sleep much, now,” he tells Derek, and Derek lets him inside without even thinking about it. As they step through the door together, Derek notices that there can’t be more than a few inches of space between them. His mind sounds an alert, tells him to move back and run; but his body urges him to stay, to breathe in the air around Stiles and the scent of his shampoo.

He can analyze that thought later.

“It’s 2 A.M.,” Derek says. “What are you doing here?” Stiles turns to him with raised eyebrows.

“We haven’t finished _Harry Potter,_ ” he says, as if it’s obvious, and Derek just stares at him. “I mean, if you don’t want to know what happens with Fluffy and the dragon, fine. But I personally think that the plot only gets better from here—”

Derek pushes him towards the couch. Stiles barks out a surprised noise but lets himself fly forward, his knees hitting the worn leather. Derek flexes his hands, the feeling of Stiles’ clothes soft against his calloused fingers. He doesn’t know how to say _thank you,_ how to express to Stiles how much it means to him that he’s here. Because they both know that Stiles isn’t here for _Harry Potter,_ not really. Derek may be thick when it comes to this stuff, but he isn’t stupid enough to think that Stiles comes over to read to him most days just because he wants someone to read to. Stiles is checking up on him. He should mind it and it should make him feel vulnerable—but it’s 2 A.M., and he can’t manage to.

His hypothesis is confirmed when Stiles pulls a few ice packs out of his bag. Derek crosses his arms and glares at him until Stiles looks up. A sheepish expression crosses his face. “I, uh, saw what the—the shapeshifter did. I figured you’re enough of a caveman that you probably didn’t have this stuff.”

Derek snorts. “I do have a first aid kit, Stiles.” It doesn’t matter that he never uses it.

Stiles makes a face at him, curls his legs onto the couch. He hasn’t sat on the floor the past three visits. When Derek thinks back on it, he feels bad for not offering him the couch from the start. It was just too much, back then. Derek sits down as well, keeping space between them as Stiles pulls out some Advil and then –no surprise—a sandwich. He tosses it to Derek, who catches it. The werewolf’s stomach is doing flip-flops, and he’s not remotely hungry, but he puts it on the table for later anyways.

“Do you want one?” Stiles asks, holding an ice pack, and Derek hesitates. His leg is still sore and he does feel a bit hot. But he doesn’t want Stiles to know that.

“Werewolves don't need ice packs," he says, and Stiles rolls his eyes. The next second, the cold is on Derek’s lower leg. He yelps in surprise but, going against every single mental trigger telling him to run, doesn’t jerk away. When he doesn’t move, the human takes it as a good sign. Stiles presses down, just slightly, and pleasure trickles up Derek’s spine and into the back of his neck. He has to force his eyes to stay open, keep his mouth shut, because the cold _is_ doing wonders.

“That feel ok?” Stiles asks, carefully adjusting the pack a bit more, and Derek just nods. It’s been ages since anyone has done this for him—save for Peter, and that was more out of necessity than anything. Besides, Peter always had an ulterior motive; just like Jennifer did, when she let him heal at her house. He shudders slightly at the thought, and Stiles pauses. “You good?”

Instead of answering his question, Derek nods towards the book. “You gonna read?” he asks, and Stiles’ lips twitch up slightly.

“Sure, Sourwolf.” Derek bares his teeth at him but Stiles just laughs, and Derek withdraws his leg in retaliation, bringing it closer to his body. He feels some faint echo of loss go through him at the motion, and forcefully pushes it down. He can’t let himself get used to this. Sooner or later Stiles is going to reconsider whatever the hell he’s doing, realize that Derek is a monster and doesn’t deserve his time, and then Derek will be alone again. He can’t let himself get attached to Stiles’ kindness.

As Stiles settles into his reading pose, legs splayed out on the table in front of the couch, Derek tries to relax. His own leg is throbbing again, the numbness from the ice disappearing fast. He thinks the shapeshifter must have had some magic or venom in her, because the bone should be good as new by now. There have been worse injuries than this, ones that have healed in half the time. When Stiles leaves, he should check it out.

He’s so lost in thought that he doesn’t hear Stiles when he speaks. He thinks he’s probably reading; but when the teen’s voice doesn’t continue, he knows Stiles must have asked a question. “What?” he asks, and Stiles clears his throat.

“I was saying you could stretch your leg out, if you want,” he says, not looking at Derek. His cheeks are flushing a blotchy red. Derek finds himself liking it. “It would make it easier to ice it. While I read. Because then I could, like, hold the ice pack with one hand and the book with the other. You know, if… if you want to put your feet in my lap, it’s ok.” The human mumbles the last sentence, and Derek can hear the frantic hip-hop of his heart. The sound captivates him for a few seconds and he processes the words. “No pressure,” he hears Stiles say, sounding anxious, and Derek takes in a deep breath.

Slowly, he stretches out his legs and lets his feet touch Stiles’ knees. His shoes are caked with mud, and he struggles for a moment in whether or not to take them off. Stiles very lightly touches his clothed ankle, and it makes Derek twitch. “Want me to take your shoes off?” he asks, and Derek teeters still. What if they have to run? What if something attacks them here? What if he has to protect Stiles but steps on something and falls, or gets poisoned?

“I can do it,” Derek replies, and kicks his shoes onto the floor. They fall to the wood with a _thump,_ skidding a few feet before hitting the back corner that Stiles used to sit in so quietly when he first came to Derek’s house. As he settles his socked feet onto Stiles’ lap, Derek’s heart is pounding so loudly in his chest that he’s afraid Stiles will hear it. It’s been forever since he’s let anyone into his personal space like this, and he feels incredibly vulnerable.

“Can I… can I rub it, a bit?” Stiles asks, and Derek swallows the lump that rises in his throat. “Sometimes it helps. Have you ever had a massage?”

“No,” Derek says, and his voice sounds rough. “I haven’t.”

“Sometimes it loosens the muscle,” Stiles says, and his voice is surprisingly soft. “Or I can just put the ice on it. Whatever you’re comfortable with.” Stiles knows that he is nervous. He has to. There’s no way Derek looks calm and collected when faced with the idea of someone actually touching his bare skin, no matter where it is. He can’t even remember when he was last touched.

“Go ahead,” he manages, actually terrified, and Stiles’ face is perfectly neutral as he moves Derek’s pant leg up to his knee. Derek can’t hear anything but the frantic beating of his own heart as Stiles’ fingertips press against his skin. At the first round of pressure, Derek actually shudders. He’s completely taken aback by how good it feels. It shouldn’t, he thinks. But Stiles’ skin is somehow the prefect temperature, and so smooth, and he’s applying just the right amount of force.

“How does it feel?” Stiles asks, and he rubs his fingers in circles over a knot in Derek’s calf. Derek wants to groan from how much it’s helping, the way his muscles are loosening, how strangely intimate the situation is to him.

“Fine,” he grunts. _It feels amazing,_ he wants to say, but doesn’t. Instead, he bites his tongue as Stiles moves back down to his ankle, still rubbing with his thumbs. Stiles works smoothly, steadily, keeping a constant force and rhythm against the soft skin of Derek’s leg and foot. Derek watches for a few moments, trying to repress the urge to let his guard down. It’s incredibly difficult, when Stiles is making him feel so safe and cared for.

“You can relax,” Stiles blurts unexpectedly, and Derek blinks at him a few times. Stiles focuses his eyes on Derek’s ankle, refusing to look up again. He’s done that a lot tonight, Derek notes. “I mean… I just… I won’t hurt you.” He finally looks up at Derek. When he next speaks, the words are hesitant. “You know I would never hurt you, right?”

Derek’s throat tightens, because there is absolutely no trace of a lie in Stiles’ words. He _believes_ Stiles, down to his core. It’s terrifying to hear something so genuine and sincere. It’s rare, and he doesn’t even know what to do or how to respond. What can he say to that? There’s nothing he could say that would begin to explain the way his heart is pounding, his brain buzzing as if high.

Out of the blue, the first sentence from the first book Stiles ever read to him pops back into his brain: “ _Gestures are all I have; sometimes they must be grand in nature_.” He can imagine the way Stiles said it in his head, the way the light had flickered across his face from the window. The words ring true. Sometimes, gestures are all that Derek has. So he doesn’t respond, not with words. Instead, he pushes his feet a bit more firmly into Stiles’ lap and sinks into the couch cushions. He lets his body posture be more open, his head tilting back just a tiny bit. He’s showing his neck; it’s something that he _knows_ Stiles has read in the book that they worked on together, and the human has to understand the significance of it. He’s trusting the human. Maybe with his life.

Stiles draws in a shaky breath at the motion, and he squeezes Derek’s ankle.

He can’t believe how much it means to him.

“I’ll start reading now,” Stiles murmurs, and the cold of the ice pack returns to Derek’s skin. Stiles has put it on his calf muscle, but the human’s hand hasn’t left his ankle. It’s resting there, unmoving. It isn’t part of helping his pain, but something else entirely. Stiles is telling him that he’s there. “Where were we? We just got to Norbert, right?”

“They’re giving him to Charlie,” Derek mumbles, and Stiles makes a noise of confirmation in the back of his throat. He starts to read, and Derek’s eyes flutter closed against his will. It just feels so good, to have this kind of contact with someone else—with _Stiles,_ he corrects himself, because he would never let anyone else do this. As the minutes pass and turn into an hour, Derek stops feeling vulnerable. He lets his neck move back a little farther, shifting into a comfortable position on the couch, and feels Stiles absent-mindedly rub his ankle as he reads. His heart has calmed, and the smell of cinnamon drifting from Stiles’ skin is filling his nose. He’s getting sleepy, and he focuses on the way Stiles’ voice sounds in the quiet of the night. It feels so… right.

* * *

When he wakes up, it’s with no memory of ever falling asleep in the first place. He twitches into awareness, his mind hazy. He’s normally alert in an instant when he stirs out of his dreams, but his body isn’t doing that today. He doesn’t think he even had a dream. All of his muscles feel limp, pliable, and it takes him a moment to remember where he is. He sits up, slowly, and looks at Stiles. With a pang, Derek sees that Stiles’ fingers are still resting on his bare leg. He never once let go, even when the ice pack thawed and turned into a limp mess, even when Derek fell asleep. The teen is deep in his dreams, the book open in his limp hand and his chest moving steadily up and down. A wave of relief washes through Derek to see him looking so peaceful. He wonders how long it’s been since Stiles has had a good night’s sleep.

As he untangles himself carefully from the human, not wanting to wake him up, he looks outside the window. The sun is just starting to peek over the horizon, which means that it can’t be past six in the morning. He glances over at Stiles again, and makes a decision.

By the time Stiles wakes up, Derek has breakfast nearly ready. He’s practically made a feast: eggs, every packet of instant oatmeal he could find in the house, bacon (which was in the freezer outside, but it smelled fine so whatever), and some stale pieces of bread that he’s turned into toast to hide how old they are. Everything has been in his fridge for a while, but he knows he would smell any danger on the food in a way a human couldn’t. So he feels fine about it. Well, fine except for the fact that he’s making Stiles _breakfast._ It’s a totally new experience for him.

He hears the change in heartbeat before he hears Stiles himself, but can’t manage any disbelief when the human half-stumbles into his kitchen with bleary eyes and messy hair. It’s almost endearing. _Almost._

“Wassitsmell?” Stiles mumbles, and Derek sends a judgmental eyebrow raise in his general direction as he dishes some eggs onto two plates.

“I made breakfast,” he says, and Stiles’ eyes get all big. The human is suddenly very awake.

“Oh my god, really?” he gushes, and Derek is relieved to see the teen’s excitement. He hasn’t seen Stiles excited about food for ages, and it’s something Derek thinks about a lot. He worries for Stiles, for the way he never eats in front of Derek. He hasn’t asked Scott or the others, but he has the feeling that it’s the same for them, too. He knows trauma can reduce hunger, even eliminate it, but it doesn’t make Stiles’ lack of healthy fat any more palatable.

“Yeah, sit down,” Derek orders, and Stiles grins at him and flops back over onto the couch. Derek piles on five pieces of bacon and a slice of toast onto each plate, and then grabs two bowls for oatmeal. Between all the food, he’s used every single piece of cutlery and all the dishes in the house. He doesn’t know whether it speaks to how much food he has made, or how few things he owns. As he places it carefully down on the table, he can smell Stiles’ happiness.

“This is so awesome,” Stiles praises, and Derek feels his ears turn red.

“It’s nothing,” he insists. Stiles grabs his plate and Derek watches, every nerve on edge, as the human pushes the food a bit around on his plate. He makes it so everything is in a nice, separate pile, without any of the different food items touching. Stiles glances up at Derek and blushes.

“Yeah, I know. I’m weird,” he says, and Derek tilts his head.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m—I’m obsessive about it, I guess,” Stiles tries to explain as he cuts each strip of bacon in half. “I like to eat it in a certain order and way.”

“Ok,” Derek says, because he doesn’t really care _how_ Stiles eats his food. He just wants him _to_ eat, wants to stop worrying and stop coming up with ideas at 1 A.M. as he lays in bed about how he can get Stiles to eat his sandwich.

They are quiet for a moment, and Stiles just stares at his plate. When he speaks, it catches Derek off guard and he nearly drops his fork. “I just—ever since…” Stiles draws in a deep breath. “Ever since the Nogitsune, I like eating everything the exact way I want to.” That’s when Derek gets it. Stiles isn’t avoiding food because he isn’t hungry or because it doesn’t look good. He’s avoiding food because he doesn’t like showing others his intense need to control the way he eats it. It’s a control problem that’s transferring to his eating. As soon as he understands, Derek wonders what else Stiles is obsessed with controlling. Of all the things Stiles is struggling with, Derek guesses that food isn’t even the biggest issue.

“I don’t think it’s weird,” Derek tells him, honest, and Stiles looks down at his food and bites his lip. He smells strangely pleased and surprised, and it almost gives Derek a buzz to understand that he’s made Stiles happy somehow.

“So I think I fell asleep sometime around the chess game under the trap door,” Stiles says, as if they hadn’t just been talking about the issues he has because of being possessed by a demon not even three months ago, and Derek spoons some oatmeal into his mouth so he doesn’t have to reply. Stiles fidgets with his sleeve a bit, a nervous tick that Derek’s learned to identify. “Too bad we didn’t finish. This book isn’t even the best one, and it’s probably taking us the longest time.”

This makes a question pop into Derek’s mind. “How fast do you read books, normally?”

Stiles pauses to think, and then shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe one a day.” Derek is so shocked that he doesn’t control the way his eyes widen. Stiles sees it and shrugs again, awkwardly this time. “I told you: I don’t really sleep. So I read a lot.”

“How many books is that?” Derek demands, because that’s just _insane._ He hasn’t read a book by himself in years; in fact, he probably wouldn’t have even heard of half of the books he now knows if it wasn’t for Stiles reading to him.

“Maybe a hundred?” Stiles guesses, and Derek just stares at him. His face must look strange, because Stiles makes a face at him. “Stop judging. It’s not as if I’m spending all my money on them. I’ve just been borrowing them from everyone I know. Dumpster diving outside the used bookstore, and stuff. Hell, I’ve even read some of my Dad’s books about the history of the United States.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” Stiles retorts, but it’s too playful. Derek recognizes it for what it is: avoidance. He decides not to push; after all, Stiles never pushes him. He used to, when they first met. But not anymore. They know each other too well now—or at the very least, well enough to not poke at each other’s open wounds without being prepared to find the infection there.

They finish their plates (Stiles groans, leans back on the couch with a hand on his stomach. “I might explode,” he tells Derek, who rolls his eyes) and Derek gathers them up. He plans to dump them in the sink, clean them much later, but Stiles steps next to him and rolls up the sleeves of his hoodie.

“I’ll help,” he offers, and Derek pretends that it was his idea to wash the dishes all along, that Stiles didn’t just give Derek an excuse to keep him here longer. They stand next to each other, Stiles delightedly filling the sink much too high with bubbles as Derek growls at him, their shoulders touching slightly. It’s like an electrical current running down Derek’s body, but he likes it.

“Did you have someone over?” Stiles asks, and Derek turns to look at him in confusion. Stiles is holding the two matching tea cups in his hand, and Derek’s ears turn red. He looks away quickly, and busies himself with rinsing the oatmeal bowls.

“No,” he says shortly, and Stiles looks at him for a moment before he drops it. But Derek feels the urge to confess. “I poured one for you,” he admits, the words coming out jumbled and too quickly, and wants to hit his head against the wall or maybe drown himself in the soapy water because _he cannot believe he just told Stiles that._ Stiles stills momentarily, and then goes back to washing the cups. He handles them carefully, delicately.

“Oh?” he asks, and Derek swallows. He tries to listen in on Stiles’ heart, but the sound of the running water covers most of it up.

“Yeah,” he admits, and then tries to laugh it off. It sounds rough. “I wasn’t really thinking, yesterday when I got back. It kind of just happened. Silly, huh?”

Stiles turns to look at him. They meet eyes, and there’s something in Stiles’ gaze that he can’t recognize. The sun is shining through the window above the sink, and it’s highlighting the deep browns and rich golds that lie hidden around the teen’s pupils. Derek’s never noticed the intricacy of them before.

“I don’t think it’s silly,” Stiles tells him, mimicking the words that Derek said during breakfast, and warmth floods through Derek’s entire body.

* * *

They finish the first book, then the second. The snake reminds Derek of Jackson, and when he says so Stiles laughs so loudly that a deer outside takes off in alarm. They see each other every other day now, at least, and Derek wonders how much Stiles is spending on gas. When he asks, Stiles just snorts and tells him to be quiet and listen to Tom Riddle wax poetic. Stiles has seemed more cheerful as of late, and he’s even started eating the sandwich he brings, sometimes. He cuts it into fours and removes the tomatoes, eating them before the actual meal itself, but Derek never comments. He’s just happy to see Stiles eat, to have him here.

He’s been slowly fixing up the house. He buys a new fridge so that Stiles can have ice water when he comes over, and another teapot in case Stiles ever gets sick again and needs something for his throat. One day Stiles shivers a bit and Derek realizes the door downstairs is drafting; the next day, he has it sealed nice and tight. A few days ago he bought a new rug and laid it carefully under the table by the couch so it would be just a little bit higher: he’s noticed that Stiles’ legs are just a tad too low when he stretches out for the human to be actually comfortable, even though Stiles never says anything. So he hopes the carpet will help with that. Winter is coming, so he buys a blanket for Stiles to put over his legs when it gets cold. Every time he’s out (because he’s started going into town again, forcing himself into some type of routine interaction outside of the readings), he sees something that he thinks Stiles might like. He usually buys it, his wolf humming happily in the back of his mind each time. Derek finds himself scrambling to clean things up, to make everything brighter and more comfortable. He can’t really help it, all the things that he’s doing because of Stiles. Trying to stop himself would lead to him thinking about _why_ he’s doing it, why he’s trying to make Stiles as comfortable as possible, and he doesn’t want to do that. He doesn’t want to think about nesting or pack bonds or anything of the sort. He just wants to keep reading with Stiles and fixing his house. He still dreams of Kate, all the time: of her shooting him and turning into some type of were-female. Manual labor helps, particularly when he has to think about accommodating the shorter human in the process. After all, who else visits him enough to make them worth worrying about? Thinking of Stiles and decorations and petty things is grounding. He won’t stop, even if it seems silly. Even if he doesn’t really understand why it’s helping. He’ll take anything he can get.

It’s a Sunday, one of the days where he isn’t expecting to see the human, when Derek’s phone rings. He picks it up and looks at the caller ID, frowning in confusion. Flipping his phone open, he wastes no time. “Stiles?”

“Are you in town?” Derek blinks a few times. Something is wrong with Stiles’ voice: he sounds upset. The _I’m-upset-but-trying-to-hide-it_ kind. Derek knows it well. The idea is unnerving and concern flares up inside him.

“Yeah,” he says, leaning against the leg of the kitchen table that he’s been repairing. It’s just a tad too low for Stiles’ elbows. “Why?”

Stiles lets out a breath on the other end of the phone, like he’s relieved about something. “Can I come over?”

“Of course you can,” he says, still totally flabbergasted, because why is Stiles even asking? Sure, he saw him yesterday, but that doesn’t mean the teen can’t come over. They’ve hung out for two days in a row, before.

“Ok, I’ll be over soon,” Stiles says, and hangs up before Derek can reply. Derek glances around him, frowning, and starts cleaning up. The idea of Stiles stepping on a nail and having to go to the hospital isn’t the happiest idea, especially since the Sheriff would skin him alive for letting it happen. Plus, if Stiles is upset, he doesn’t need to be maimed by Derek’s floor.

When Stiles’ jeep pulls up, Derek watches from the window. The teen grabs a book (Derek knows that it must be the third _Harry Potter,_ which Stiles won’t shut up about since apparently there’s a character named Remus that he knows Derek will _love_ ) and stalks over to the porch. He isn’t carrying the usual sandwich this time, and a knot forms in Derek’s stomach. Was he supposed to cook? Is that why Stiles called? Derek checks the time on his phone. It’s nearly eight at night, too late for any real dinner-- but still, Derek wonders if he should feel stupid about not making something.

“Hi,” Derek says, opening the door before Stiles even knocks, and Stiles smiles at him. It feels oddly forced, and Derek nonchalantly scents the air around them. Stiles smells the same as he always does: cinnamon, a touch of wet grass, some forest moss.

“Hey! Ready for the third book?” His voice is too cheerful, but Derek nods, steps aside and lets him in, anyways.

“Yeah, ok,” he consents, and watches as Stiles sits down on the couch. Slowly, he lowers himself down as well. He’s watching Stiles’ every movement, every pulse of the vein in his neck. It’s against his natural urges, but he tells himself to calm down. Clearly, Derek is overanalyzing. Stiles is probably just tired, worn out from all the activity lately. He knows that yesterday night Stiles helped Scott and Isaac set up some surprise party for Lydia; Stiles invited him, but Derek declined. He isn’t ready to see any of the others outside of an emergency situation. Not yet.

Stiles doesn’t ask if he’s ready, just starts. “ _Harry Potter was a highly unusual boy in many ways_ ,” he says, and Derek tries to push away his worries and listen. As the words flow and time passes, Derek finds himself wanting to reach out and touch, to feel the heat of Stiles’ body. Instead, he kicks off his shoes and lets his feet rest close to Stiles’ thigh. They’re almost touching.

Stiles seems to relax. His posture changes, loosening up. His fingers stop griping the book as tightly. After a few chapters, Stiles shifts and places one of his hands on Derek’s ankle. It sends goosebumps up the werewolf’s skin, but not because Stiles’ fingers are a little cool. Instead, Derek feels warm all over from the touch. Stiles doesn’t even stop reading, just acts as if this is the most natural, normal thing in the world. As if they’ve done this all their lives instead of it being something new.

He breathes in and out, watches as Stiles flips through page after page with the steady sound of his voice the only thing that Derek absorbs. It’s because of this selective attention that Derek hears the first hitch in Stiles’ breath, the first falter. It’s about ten, now, around the time that Stiles would normally leave and head back. He says his dad worries if he stays away for too long. The bitter smell of nerves hits Derek, and he tenses. Something’s wrong again. Haltingly, in increments, Stiles slows down until he stops all together.

“Stiles?” Derek asks. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, and his voice breaks. He lowers the book and lets it sit limply on his lap. “I just… Distracted.”

“Why?” Derek questions, and hopes it isn’t an emergency. The words _I’ve been losing track of time again_ or _I actually don’t want to be here ever again_ float through his mind, and it makes him feel sick.

“Kinda not looking forward to going home. Because… I… ugh.” Stiles trails off, and Derek swallows. As he sits up a little straighter, he racks his mind for what to do. Anything at all.

“Want—want to talk about it?” he settles with, and hates how hesitant he sounds. Emotions and talking are sure as hell not his strong suit. But Stiles is upset, and Derek wants to fix it. Every single fiber of his being is screaming at him to do something.

Stiles opens his mouth, closes it, and then opens it again. “Scott and Deaton and my dad are in Sacramento,” he blurts, and Derek sits up completely at the words.

“What?”

“Yeah. There was some emergency supernatural thing happening,” Stiles says, and he sounds frustrated now. “They just took off this afternoon. Left without me. I kept asking them what was going on and they wouldn’t tell me, Scott wouldn’t even _look_ at me. He kept saying he was sorry. My dad just said that I should stay here, that it was for the best.” Derek moves a little closer to him, because he can smell waves of anger rolling off of Stiles. Stiles either doesn’t notice or is too riled up to care. He’s gripping Derek’s ankle, clearly not even aware that he’s doing it. “And so I go and do some research, because why the hell would any of them do that? None of them have before. Scott is my best friend. He doesn’t _do_ that. And so—so I was researching, and looking at all these news reports, and I…”

But suddenly Derek knows. “There’s another demon,” he says, and Stiles’ nods. He runs a hand over his face. He doesn’t seem angry anymore, not really, just resigned. And exhausted.

“I just wish I could have gone,” he says, and there is so much hurt in the words that it almost makes Derek whine. “They brought Scott for the manpower, Deaton for the knowledge, and my dad for a cover-up in case authorities see them. And they left me at home. And I get it, I do. They don’t want me triggered, or whatever. They think it’s for the best. But what am I supposed to do, you know? I… being alone it isn’t… at night I get nervous if I’m—if I’m by myself.” He says it as if it’s shameful. Derek doesn’t think it is.

“After what happened, it makes sense,” he replies, and Stiles looks down at his hands.

“They just don’t really… get it, you know?” he says, and Derek nods. Because he does understand the feeling of others being clueless to what he’s going through. Having something like that happen, being possessed… Well, he only got a glimpse of it when the flies controlled him, and it sucked. He can’t begin to imagine what it felt like for Stiles, to be trapped inside himself for so long.

As if thinking along the same lines, Stiles speaks again. “I can sit and think about what it felt like to have another creature in my body, to have the Nogitsune force me to have sex with Malia Tate and twist a knife into my best friend’s stomach. That’s, like, it.” Stiles sucks in a breath. Derek feels cold all over as he continues. “When I’m alone, it all comes back. If there’s someone else there, even just in a different room or silently watching TV with me or something, it’s easier. Because I know that if—if things got weird, if I started acting strange—they could tell me. But when I’m alone I just… I think about Allison and Aiden, and how I nearly got my Dad fired. How I thought that among everything else spiraling out of control, I could at least be in charge of my own actions. But I was wrong. So knowing that I’m going back to an empty house,” he looks at Derek, straight in the eyes, “scares me.”

Derek is quiet, just nods. He has to resist the urge to run his hands down Stiles’ arms to try and soothe him. It’s something Laura used to do whenever Cora was upset. It helps, that he knows. Nonetheless, the compulsion is unanticipated. He was never one who knew how to comfort someone else, and it’s showing now. He searches for the right words to try and show Stiles how much he cares. “I used to be afraid to sleep without Laura there, after the fire,” he admits, and it shocks Stiles enough to make him temporarily distracted.

“But you… You seem to… like being alone,” Stiles says, slowly, and Derek shrugs.

“I guess I just got used to it.” It’s true. After all, wolves aren’t meant to be loners. They belong in a pack, with a family and a home. _Social creatures,_ as his mother used to say. But he couldn’t let people get close to him after everything that happened. Stiles is a huge exception, one that Derek realizes he’s more than happy to allow. Whenever that happened, he doesn’t know.

He thinks about Stiles, going back to his place all by himself. It makes his chest ache unpleasantly, the complete antithesis to the warm feeling he had with Stiles’ hand on his ankle just minutes ago. He steels himself, and then speaks. He’s about to take a huge risk, offer something he never has before, and it scares the shit out of him. He just hopes his voice is steady. “You know, you don’t have to deal with it alone.”

Stiles stops. His heart literally skips a beat and then rushes to compensate, and Derek continues before the teen has the chance to panic further or jump to any conclusions. “You can stay here. I have a blanket and you can take my bed.”

“I—what?” Stiles asks, and Derek backtracks. It isn’t the reaction he was expecting—hell, what _was_ he expecting? The idea sounds stupid, now that he’s said it out loud. Why would Stiles want to stay overnight with _him_?

“I mean, if you want to.”

He’s horrified when Stiles buries his face in his hands. _What did I do?_ he thinks. “Fuck,” the teen hisses, and Derek winces internally. God, he shouldn’t even have offered. It’s rude, to assume Stiles needs him. After all, he doesn’t mean to imply that Stiles is weak. In fact, the human is the strongest person he knows. But when Stiles looks up, he doesn’t seem angry. If anything, he’s humiliated. “I just—you don’t—God, I’m so embarrassed. I’m being such an ass.” He tries to soften it with a laugh, but it’s too forced. “I can’t believe I’m fucking whining to you. It’s so pathetic. I don’t want you to feel like I was trying to invite myself over, that’s not what I meant to do at all. I totally thought I would come here and not think about it, that I would be able to go back home and let you be. I didn’t mean to, you know…”

“Stop,” Derek insists, rather desperately, and Stiles actually does. “It’s no trouble. I promise. I wouldn’t have offered if…” _If I didn’t want you to stay._ Because when it comes down to it, that’s how he feels.

“I—are you sure?” Stiles asks, and Derek nods. The human frowns. “I didn’t bring any of my stuff.”

“That’s ok. You can borrow mine.” Derek isn’t normally one for sharing, but the idea of Stiles using his things doesn’t bother him. If anything, it sends a pleasant tingle down his spine. “I just washed the sheets yesterday.” He doesn’t mention that before then, he hadn’t washed them for years. “Do you want me to get it ready now, or do you want to talk more?” It’s awkwardly direct, but Derek doesn’t know how else to handle the situation. It _is_ late, and Stiles smells exhausted.

“No I—I can sleep,” Stiles says, and his voice is still full of hesitant relief. It’s pouring off of his scent. “I mean, if you’re tired. Like, I don’t want to be all ‘lights out’ on you. I can… we can read more, if you want.”

“Sleep is fine,” Derek replies, because he knows that he won’t be able to focus on anything after this. Knowing that Stiles is going to be sleeping here—it makes him on edge. He doesn’t like the way his wolf is humming excitedly in the back of his mind, as if praising him for his actions. To distract himself from the level of emotions he’s unable to clamp down on, Derek stands up off the couch and Stiles scrambles up as well.

“I can take the couch,” Stiles insists, but Derek shakes his head.

“It’s fine.” Stiles will not be sleeping so close to the door, where anyone could break in. There’s no way in hell that happening. Derek’ room only has one window, which is always locked. It’s much, much safer, Derek thinks. Stiles follows him upstairs, and the teen’s heartbeat is too fast. Truthfully, so is Derek’s. He searches in the closet for some sweats and a T-shirt while Stiles peeks into his bedroom. It’s plain, simple in design: just the bed, a brown blanket, and a nightstand. There’s nothing that makes it _his_ except for his scent, but Stiles doesn’t comment on the lack of decoration. Instead, he takes the clothes when Derek hands them over and looks around. “The bathroom is down the hall,” Derek directs, and Stiles nods. “You can use my stuff.”

“Thanks,” Stiles murmurs, and it’s soft but genuine. He disappears behind the door and closes it. Derek leans against the wall as soon as he’s back downstairs, breathing slowly to try and calm the concert his heart is attempting to perform. He hears the water turn on and busies himself making the couch into a temporary bed, trying very hard not to think about Stiles changing or using his toothbrush, getting his sweet scent on everything. The thought makes his stomach lurch; when did he start thinking about things like that?

Stiles pads down the stairs a few minutes later. “Well, I’m heading off to bed.” When Derek looks up to tell him good night, he nearly chokes. Derek’s clothes are just a little too big on Stiles, who is nearly as tall as he is but less built. It’s not the sight that gets him, though: it’s the smell. Their scents are mixed together on Stiles’ skin, and it’s so pleasant that Derek actually feels his toes curl. His wolf growls happily in the back of his mind, possessive and pleased that Stiles is practically letting himself be scent marked as Derek’s. Derek wonders if Stiles even knows what he’s doing. He can’t know, can he? That he’s practically acting like a mate?

He realizes he hasn’t replied when Stiles looks at him, seeming expectant. He has to clear his throat, and his mouth is too dry when he nods. “Yeah. Night.”

Stiles turns to go up the stairs, and then pauses. He spins around again. “Thanks, for this,” he blurts, and Derek feels his ears flush a bit. Stiles is blushing too, blotchy as always. “You’re—this—I really appreciate it. You doing all this for me.”

“It’s fine,” Derek repeats, and Stiles smiles. It’s a real smile, and the image sticks in Derek’s head long after the door to his bedroom closes and Stiles’ heartbeat falls into the rhythm of sleep. Derek turns off the light and sits down on the couch, listening to the sound of Stiles’ steady breathing. Something about knowing that Stiles is close settles the knot that Derek has in his stomach. It’s not enough to relax him into sleep, but it does let him process exactly what’s going on.

 _He chose to come to you,_ his mind whispers, and Derek turns onto his side and looks out the window. The moon is half-full. Derek thinks about how important Stiles’ comfort is to him, how desperately he wants to please the human. He thinks about the way Stiles’ voice calms him down, makes him feel safe; about how he feels warm and comfortable whenever Stiles touches him; about the past few months that they’ve been doing this dance around each other, sometimes just moving in sync but sometimes colliding. Each collision a spark, a jolt through him.

_I think I’m in love with him._

The thought bubbles out of him without his consent, and it horrifies him but overjoys his wolf. Because he can _feel_ it’s truth in every single cell, every pore in his body. Oh my god. He’s fallen for _Stiles._ For sarcastic, witty, loud—smarter than hell, brave, _hurt_ Stiles. As much as he wants to deny it, to push away the thought because it would be better for the human if he didn’t, he can’t. He’s become invested, heavily so. Looking back, he can see the stages. Ever since Stiles opened his mouth and read him _The Art of Racing in the Rain,_ Derek’s been falling in love with him.

Needless to say, he doesn’t sleep.

It’s around 3 A.M. when he hears the first noise. Initially, he thinks that it’s the quiet whine of a creaky pipe. After all, the water systems in his house aren’t the best; they were installed when they first moved in, all of them. It’s been over twenty years. But then it happens again, and it sounds too human.

It _is_ human. It’s Stiles. Derek doesn’t know how he didn’t notice before: Stiles’ heart is beating upstairs with the frenzy of a wild bird trapped in a cage too small. Derek is up an in instant, taking only seconds to leap up the stairs and yank open the door to his bedroom. Moonlight is falling into Stiles’ frame, and Derek searches around for an intruder with his claws ready. He’s ready to rip out a throat, lungs if he has to. He’ll fight anything that thinks it can hurt the human. But there’s no one there, no one except Stiles.

 Derek pads over to him and stands there, watching as Stiles squirms and lets out another whimper. It makes Derek flinch and he drops down onto his knees by the bed, looking closely at the human’s face. He’s _asleep._ It’s not anything physical that’s hurting Stiles; it’s all in his mind. It’s petrifying. After all, Derek can fight real demons and monsters, ones who are hurt by his claws and can be killed with his teeth. But dreams? Derek doesn’t know how to fight the demons and monsters in those.

Stiles lets out a little gasp, sweat trickling down the curve of his exposed collarbone, and Derek lets his instincts take over. He’s reaching out to Stiles, shaking him a little. “Stiles,” he says, and the human just whimpers. He raises his voice. “ _Stiles._ ”

Stiles opens his eyes with a gasp, his arms flailing as he wakes. Derek puts a hand on Stiles’ arm, steadying him, holding him down slightly so he doesn’t hurt himself. Stiles’ skin feels clammy underneath his fingers. As they look at each other for a few seconds, Derek can see Stiles’ brain trying to figure out what’s going on. “Am I asleep?” Stiles whispers, and it makes Derek’s heart twinge. He squeezes Stiles’ arm, rubs down it in some attempt at comfort.

"You’re awake. You were having a nightmare.” Stiles isn’t looking at his face anymore, instead focused on Derek’s fingers. Derek flashes back to his nightmares, where Stiles tells him over and over again that people don’t have the right number of fingers in dreams. It’s eerily applicable now. “I have ten fingers,” Derek assures him, taking his hands away and holding them up. He can see Stiles’ eyes flicking from finger to finger, counting. When he does –and it must be once or twice, because it takes too many seconds of silence, seconds Derek spends agonizing over whether or not Stiles is ok—Stiles leans back into the covers and hides his face in his hands.

"Sorry,” Stiles mumbles, and Derek shakes his head. Then he realizes Stiles can’t see the motion.

“Are you ok?” Derek asks, and Stiles doesn’t answer. Derek lays a hand, cautiously, on Stiles’ arm again. To his surprise, Stiles slides his other hand up and grips Derek’s fingers. It’s tight and desperate, the grip of someone who feels like they’re on the edge and about to fall, and Derek’s throat seals up at the motion. Because it’s _him_ that Stiles is using as his support.

"I dreamed you all died,” Stiles says, and it’s so low that Derek would have missed it if it wasn’t for his sensitive hearing. He flips his hand over and squeezes back, feeling the way Stiles’ pulse beats under his fingers. He counts it, lets himself track each minute that it slows to a more normal level. The contact is helping, he thinks. Some color is returning to the teen’s cheeks. Stiles just looks at him, breathing. Eventually, he asks, “Is it stupid, to be afraid of a dream?”

Derek struggles on how to reply without just saying _no._ “I dream about Kate a lot,” Derek confesses to him, the words halted, and Stiles looks at him in the moonlight that illuminates the room. “Dreams within a dream. She’s come back from the dead, that she shoots me.” He likes the way that Stiles tightens his grip a little at this, like he doesn’t like the idea of Derek being hurt. He uses it to fuel his voice. “So I think it makes sense, sometimes, to be afraid.”

They’re quiet as Derek lets Stiles collect his thoughts. When he next speaks, it’s in a whisper. “Sometimes I’m afraid that I think I’m awake, but I’m actually not. Like with the Nogitsune, how I always had dream within a dream within a dream. It’s like it never stopped, really. I’m always checking. Fingers, voices, words. Written words. Because when you’re dreaming, you can’t read.” Stiles swallows, the sound loud. The breath he releases is a shudder, and Derek moves just a bit closer. His wolf wants him to press his face into Stiles’ neck, but he doesn’t.

“That’s why you read so much,” Derek observes, understanding finally, and Stiles nods from his sideways position on the pillow. He seems strangely numb, as if he’s in shock. But his heartbeat is strong, now, and Derek takes comfort in it.

“I’m always afraid that I’ll come here to read and I won’t be able to,” Stiles whispers, and his voice breaks. “I—I’m afraid I’ll wake up and roll out of bed, and grab the newspaper like I always do, but I won’t be able to read it. Just nonsense, markings floating around on the page.”

Derek draws in a breath and maybe his grip gets a little too tight, because Stiles twitches. Derek forces himself to be gentle. “I’m not going to let that happen,” he promises, and he means it. With every single fiber of his being, he plans to stick to that promise. He never wants Stiles to be afraid again, and certainly not of his own mind. Stiles’ heartbeat speeds up again. “If that ever happens, you find Scott and I. Ok?”

Stiles looks at him, and after a few moments he nods. He looks teary, and Derek wants to reach out and wipe the droplets away. The teen must notice him looking, because he lets out a watery laugh and buries his face in the pillow. “God, I can’t believe I’m crying. I’m such a sissy,” he says, voice muffled, and Derek makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. It’s better than saying what he wants to: that Stiles is too strong for his own good. Stiles swats at him and Derek tries very hard not to smile. His lips twitch up, anyways. But he sobers up the next second.

“Are you ok?” he asks again, and this time Stiles nods into the soft fabric of the pillow. Derek untangles his fingers from Stiles’ hand and places it on the middle of his back, instead. “Do you need anything? Water?” Derek has always thought he was terrible at helping people, at showing he cares. And maybe he is, most of the time. But right now, judging by the way Stiles is reacting, Derek is doing just fine. Maybe he’s a little bit of what Stiles needs, after all. The thought is so wonderful that it makes him tingle all over. He wants Stiles to need him. He wants to be one of the things that grounds him. _An anchor,_ he thinks, and stops the idea before it gets any farther. He’s afraid to hope for it.

“M’ok,” Stiles mumbles. Derek nods, not wanting to move away. Watching over Stiles, having physical evidence of his safety, makes him calmer than he was on the couch. Stiles lets out a sigh and lifts his face up, so he can look at Derek. It’s as if he’s deciding something. “Can you do me a favor?”

“Sure,” Derek responds, not even needing to ask what. Stiles bites his lip, chews on the pink softness there.

“Can you—will you lay down, next to me?” he asks, and it’s Derek’s turn to panic, just a little. He looks at Stiles, wearing his clothes, sleeping in his bed. Their shared scents are already making him feel slightly intoxicated. Accepting the offer would be selfish, giving into his desires, letting himself drown even more in the fantasy of this meaning _more._

He needs a therapist, because he doesn’t even try to resist an urge that he knows must be dysfunctional. “Yeah,” he murmurs, and the relief on Stiles’ face is so palpable that Derek nearly tastes it. Stiles starts to scoot over, and when Derek starts to protest because he doesn’t want the teen to have to move, Stiles just shakes his head.

“I feel safer, if you’re between me and the door,” Stiles admits, and the words literally increase the heat on Derek’s skin by a few degrees. He can feel it pulse through him in a wave, like a hot flash, and he tries not to give into his wolf and whine happily.

“That’s ok,” he assures the human, and Stiles actually smiles a bit. Derek slides onto the bed, and there’s an awkward moment when he doesn’t know what to do with his limbs, where to rest. But Stiles moves forward a tiny bit, closing some of the space between them. They’re facing each other but not touching. He bites his lip again, and Derek stares at the motion in entrancement.

“Is it ok if I touch your hand?” Stiles asks, and Derek forces his mind to shut up so he can nod. Slowly, Stiles shifts and wraps his right hand around Derek’s wrist. His touch is so soft and light that Derek can barely feel it, but it still makes his chest feel full. Yet somehow, it’s not enough. Derek wishes he could touch him back. But he can't, he just-- he can't. This is all he can handle, and somewhere the rational part of him knows it. So he just focuses on the contact, thinks about taking some of Stiles’ pain away.

“Holy shit, this bed is cozy,” Stiles murmurs, and Derek doesn’t say anything. Sometimes taking pain means taking adrenaline, nerves, and he can feel his veins accepting both of those from Stiles. He can tell that Stiles is getting sleepy again, and that’s what he wants.

“You know,” Stiles mumbles, and Derek looks down at him to see that Stiles’ eyes are closed, “you’re a good guy, right?” The words are slightly slurred from exhaustion, and Derek wonders if Stiles even knows he’s talking. He shushes the human, but Stiles just sighs quietly and nuzzles a tiny bit closer. Derek holds his breath, heart pounding furiously against his ribcage. Stiles makes a small noise, then manages a few more sentences, slow and only half-awake in nature. “I wish you could see for yourself just how amazing you are. It’s like you think no one can like you. But… I do.”

Derek flushes, his entire face going red, and he’s glad that Stiles in only half-lucid. It’s true, that Derek thinks he is unlikable. But to hear Stiles compliment him, so simply and directly… Well, it makes him feel wanted. Maybe for the first time in years.

Stiles heartbeat plunges into the rhythm of sleep, and Derek waits for five minutes after Stiles is deep in his dreams before he even starts breathing again. He doesn’t rest in the slightest, because he’s too busy watching the way Stiles’ eyes flutter in his sleep and trying to convince himself that this is actually his life.

* * *

In the morning, Derek makes breakfast again before Stiles wakes up. His fridge is usually stocked with food now, half of which he throws out when Stiles doesn’t eat it in time, but Derek doesn’t care. Money isn’t an issue for him, but being able to make food for the human is. He’s learned little things over the course of the last few months just by talking to Stiles and listening to his stories. Stiles adores bacon, hates sausage; he likes his eggs just a little undercooked so by the time he gets to them they’re perfect; he loves white bread but never has it at his house because it’s unhealthy and he’s protective of the Sheriff’s strict dietary regime.

When Stiles comes downstairs, he’s changed out of Derek’s clothes and seems more awake than last time he accidentally spent the night. He beams when he sees the food. “Damn! Breakfast again? You’re spoiling me.” Derek just scoffs, too embarrassed to do anything else, and thrusts a plate at Stiles. It’s hard to look at him when Derek now knows what he looks like with his head against a pillow mere inches away.

“How’d you sleep?” he finds himself asking. He closes his mouth with a snap, afraid that he’s bringing up something he shouldn’t. But Stiles dishes some eggs onto his plate, still smiling. He smells content.

“Great, after you came up,” Stiles replies, and lightly bumps his hip against Derek’s as he crosses over to the couch. It’s a small motion that makes Derek feel warm and fuzzy. Watching Stiles sit down is familiar, predictable, and Derek knows exactly how Stiles will cross his legs on the coffee table. Which, he notes, is now the perfect height for the teen.

“No dreams?” he clarifies, and Stiles nods.

“No dreams,” he confirms, and Derek sits down next to him. Their legs touch slightly, and Derek doesn’t want to pull away. Judging from Stiles’ lack of movement, the human either doesn’t notice or feels the same.

“Good,” Derek says, and takes a huge bite of oatmeal so he won’t say anything stupid. Stiles makes a humming noise. It feels good, Derek realizes, to have the problem out in the open. Knowing that Stiles is struggling with it somehow makes it more real, but also easier to deal with. Derek no longer thinks that he’s just overanalyzing everything, and that means that he can accept the problem for what it is and take action. He’ll sleep with Stiles’ hand on his wrist every night if it makes Stiles feel better.

“This is nice, hanging out like this,” Stiles observes, as if thinking the same thing, and Derek twists to look at him. Stiles glances at his face, as if for confirmation, and Derek works hard to form his mouth into a smile. Stiles smiles back. “My therapist keeps telling me to talk about it without people. The Nogistune, I mean,” the teen continues, as if this is the most normal thing in the world to talk about, but Derek can see through his fake confidence. His pulse is just a few beats too fast.

“You have a therapist?” Derek asks, and Stiles nods. “How—but werewolves—”

“It’s Ms. Morell,” Stiles admits, and Derek has to search his memory before he remembers.

“Morell? As in the druid, Marin Morell?” he asks, and Stiles nods again. Derek hesitates. He’s never been to therapy. “Is it… does it help?”

Stiles pauses, a forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth. “I… I guess so?” Derek snorts at how unsure he sounds, and Stiles brandishes the eggs at him. “Shut up. I mean—she knows what she’s doing, I think. She did kind of tell me she was going to kill me if I ended up losing to the darkness, though, so that kind of puts a damper on the idea of a ‘safe space,’ you know?” Derek knows that Stiles means it as a joke, but the idea of anyone threatening him makes his hackles rise and his wolf riled up. He pushes it down as Stiles keeps talking. “I think it’s helping, though. Certainly isn’t making it worse.”

“That’s good.”

“Have you…” Stiles starts, and then trails off. He looks down at his food, blushing. “God, sorry. Rude question. No filter.”

Derek finds that he doesn’t mind. “I haven’t,” he answers. He puts his fork down so Stiles won’t see him trembling. “I want to, though.”

“I could ask Marin,” Stiles offers, fidgeting, and quickly adds, “I mean, if you want. She could give me references for other therapists who know about this stuff.”

As always, there is some quiet between them as Derek thinks. Stiles eats a strip of bacon, eyes downcast. Finally, Derek nods. “That would be good,” he decides, and realizes that it’s true.

When Stiles goes to leave about thirty minutes later, Derek walks him out to his car for the first time. He doesn’t want Stiles to leave, yet, but he knows that the human wants to see Scott and the Sheriff as soon as they get back. Stiles stands by the Jeep’s hood, and he twiddles his thumbs once more. “So… I’ll see you later,” he says, and Derek notices that it’s no longer phrased as a question.

“Yeah,” Derek confirms, and they both stand there awkwardly for a few beats.

“Does tomorrow morning work? Like ten?” Stiles asks, and Derek is taken aback.

“What about your dad and Scott?”

Stiles shrugs. “I see them all the time. Whenever I’m not with you. Don’t get me wrong, I can’t wait to see them today. But tomorrow my dad will be working, and Scott will probably sleep over at my house tonight and watch lame action movies, so it’s not like I won’t see him.” Stiles bites his lip. He moves his weight from foot to foot. “I just—I really… I like being with you.”

The words hit Derek, and he wishes that he could somehow snapshot this moment in his mind, forever. He ducks his head to hide the smile that’s trying to make an appearance. “Me too,” he gets out, and a wave of cinnamon hits him when Stiles lays a hand on his arm.

“Look, Derek—” Stiles starts, and Derek feels his heart skip a beat in hope.

Stiles’ phone rings. It jerks them out of the moment and Derek steps back, putting space between them again. Stiles’ face is unreadable when he pulls his phone out of his pocket and looks at the caller ID. He suddenly seems torn.

“Scott?” Derek asks, and Stiles looks back up at him.

“Yeah, I—they’re probably wondering where I am. I—I have to go. But I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah? And we can read and… and talk, then.” There’s a edginess to Stiles’ voice that wasn’t there before, making it just a little bit higher than normal. His phone buzzes impatiently and he swears. “Right. Ok. Bye!”

“See you tomorrow,” Derek says, long after Stiles has driven away.


	3. Worth Saving

“Reading is the sole means by which we slip, involuntarily, often helplessly, into another’s skin, another’s voice, another’s soul.”  
**— Joyce Carol Oates**

Stiles is _late._

It’s already the afternoon and Derek feels antsy, high-strung. He has ever since ten and then eleven o’clock passed with no word from Stiles. He can’t help but check his phone every few minutes, waiting for a text along the lines of **_oops, slept in, heading over now ;)!_** But nothing comes up, and each hour makes Derek increasingly anxious.

He’s being ridiculous, he thinks, as he laces up some shoes to go running. He’ll just jog around the Hale property, check things out, he tells himself. After all, Stiles _is_ late. Derek won’t wait around the house for him like a lost puppy. _And if something happened, you’ll know,_ the dark part of his brain nudges, and it gives Derek a scowl for the next ten minutes. Partly because he thinks he might be losing his mind and having clingy tendencies, and partly because he is legitimately worried. Stiles has never once been late to their readings, and if he was Derek would expect there to at least be a phone call or text of some sort.

There’s been nothing.

He jogs down the dirt road, trying to relax and clear his mind. But he’s on high alert, looking through the trees with eyes peeled and his ears listening to the smallest scuffle in the underbrush. His body is tingling, and it’s not from exhaustion or the sweat that’s starting to trickle down his skin. His wolf _knows,_ just _knows_ that something is wrong. He takes a deep breath in.

Maybe it’s because of this that he smells the burnt rubber long before he actually notices the car.

It’s as if his heart stops beating, as if the world zooms in and the only thing that exists is Stiles’ Jeep, turned over onto its side in a nearby ditch. The engine is steaming, slightly, and it looks like the entire passenger’s side has been crushed up like a crumpled piece of paper in a wastebin.

“Oh god,” he hears himself croak. This can’t be happening.

No, not now— no.

Derek’s throat closes up and he can’t find his voice for a moment. Then it echoes out of him in a roar of pure panic, and he’s by the car in a split second. “Stiles!” he yells, pressing his face against the glass. It’s too covered in mud to see through, and Derek doesn’t bother attempting to brush it off. Instead, he digs his claws into the door. The metal yields easily under his fingers as he rips it off. For a second he’s paralyzed with fear, thinking that he’s going to see Stiles’ limp, bloody body scattered around the interior. Brains on the steering wheel, intestines on the seat. Burned, charred skin, just like his family's.

The car is empty.

Derek circles around it a few times, so wound up that he can barely see anything but red. He scents the air, trying to find any traces of cinnamon among the dirt and melted metal. There are too many possibilities for him to even begin understanding what’s happened. He thinks about what happened last time Stiles disappeared, and then about how he promised Stiles he wouldn’t let anything like that happen again. He feels sick.

A noise to his left makes him turn his head and he snarls, loudly. He has no qualms about ripping someone’s throat out, torturing them to find out where the hell his human is.

“Derek, it’s me!” says a voice, and Derek stops short.

“Scott?” he asks, and Scott emerges from the side. He looks disheveled, leaves in his hair and a few twigs clinging to his clothes. He’s covered in dirt and panting. Derek looks him up and down; he must have run here, too. He can smell the dread and alarm on Scott’s skin. It does nothing to ease his already petrified mind. Derek states what he hopes is the obvious at this point. “Stiles never came to my house.”

“Oh my god,” Scott whispers, eyes wide. “Oh no.”

Derek feels cold. “I thought I would go for a run and check but…. You… How—how did you know—?”

“Lydia called me,” Scott says, rushing forward and peering into the car. “Says she heard Stiles’ jeep in her mind. That the noise wouldn’t stop.” Derek sucks in a rough breath, laying a hand on the car to steady the sudden weakness in his knees. Scott looks just as wrecked, because they both know that Lydia hearing anything related to Stiles is far from a good sign.

“He’s in danger,” Derek says, stating the obvious, and Scott nods. Somehow, the words fuel Derek, and his gaze hardens. He snarls, his canines sharp, and straightens up. “We have to find him. Where would he go?”

“He’s only ever with us or you,” Scott replies desperately, sniffing around. “I can’t find his scent. And he didn’t smell like he was possessed this morning.”

“Then something took him,” Derek concludes, stalking down the road and searching for any signs of a struggle, anything at all. There’s nothing.

Scott’s phone buzzes, and Derek turns to look at him so fast that his neck pops. He hisses angrily at the pain as Scott hastily opens the phone. “Lydia?” he asks, and Derek stills. Scott is nodding, his hands clenching. Derek doesn’t know how Scott isn’t wolfed out. Then again, he thinks, Scott has always been more in control than Derek, ever since he learned how to anchor himself. “Ok, thanks,” Scott says, and he hangs up. He looks at Derek. “Lydia’s hearing some type of bubbling. Any ideas?”

Derek wracks his brain for anything that bubbles in Beacon Hills. When it hits him, it feels like someone has dumped a bucket of ice water on his head.

“I know a place,” he says, and Scott tilts his head.

* * *

 When Derek was a pup, his mother used to tell him stories about the moon. It’s a huge force in the supernatural world, for more than just werewolves. She used to tell Derek about how Sasquatches only appear during a half-moon that took place on a Thursday in March to mate, or how during the full moon faeries sometimes dance with the wolves during the hunt. When the moon is empty, fire salamanders come out of the banks to gather all the air they need for the month. Moonlight is poisonous to them, after all.

 On days like today, when the moon is half-full and waning, Mermaids’ tails turn into legs.

 “Mermaids aren’t exactly Disney material,” Derek tells Scott as they speed up to the hot springs about ten miles from Beacon Hills. “They’re actually carnivores, and are known to be cannibalistic as well. They’ll hunt when they have legs, but when they’re stuck in the water they usually just eat fish or each other.”

 Scott is looking pale, but his mouth is set in a determined line. “So this Mermaid—she grabbed Stiles? How fast are they?”

 “On legs? Pretty damn fast, and strong. Enough to overpower a human.”

 “And turn over a car?” Scott asks, and Derek nods. He’s trying to ground himself by gripping the wheel of the Camaro.

 “You can’t judge them by how they look. I’ve heard stories of them taking out entire houses. The freshwater varieties in particular, which is what we would see here. I didn’t know there were any left in Beacon Hills; she must have dove deep under the water to hide. If she’s been hibernating and only now just woke up to show her face, then it’s worse.”

 “Because she’ll be hungry,” Scott whispers, and Derek just draws in a sharp breath and jerks the car to the side of the road. He doesn’t want to respond to that, because that makes it _real._

 "Let’s go,” he says, shoving his door open, and Scott does the same. The wind blows and both of them stiffen. They share a glance.

 “Smell that?” Scott asks, and Derek nods.

 It’s cinnamon.

 They start running.

* * *

 The rocky ledges leading up to the hot springs are sharp and firm, jutting out from the ground like shards of broken glass in a parking lot. This deep into the forest, the light is dim from the thick canopy of the trees above them. It’s eerily quiet, with no animals for miles from what Derek can tell, and it makes every single noise that he and Scott make too loud. Rather uselessly, Derek tries to step on some moss that’s clinging to the ground to soften the sound of them walking. They’re half-shifted and tense, ready to fight.

The sound of bubbling water and weak breathing hits Derek, and he can see the moment that Scott is able to hear it too. Both of them breathe in and dread settles in Derek’s stomach: he can smell blood. He prays to God, to any entity he knows and with everything he has, that Stiles isn’t dead.

They inch up the edge of the rocks and peek over. The hot spring is surrounded by rocky walls on three sides, the steam creating a layer of dampness in the air. The water is still and deep, the spring having been naturally dug into the rocky foundation of the cliffs over thousands of years. By the edge of the right side, there’s an ancient tree riding high into the sky. At the foot of it, a figure is sitting upright, supported by the scarred trunk.

“Stiles!” Derek and Scott say in unison, and they rush over. Stiles is gagged with leaves and moss, a cut running down the side of his face and his arms crisscrossed with what look like teeth marks. From the way he’s bruised and restrained, he must have put up one hell of a fight. Derek can’t manage to be even a bit surprised, knowing that Stiles fussed and fought enough to be labeled as dangerous and needing confinement. It’s almost a proud moment. But seeing Stiles, unable to move, once more trapped because of his own body, is sickening.

Stiles’ eyes widen when he sees them, and he starts wriggling against the bonds that are looping around his legs and torso. “Take it easy,” Derek murmurs to him, reaching out as Scott starts slicing the thick vines off. Derek can see lacerations from where they have dug into Stiles’ skin, and he can’t stop his eyes from blazing. He cups Stiles’ face with one hand and removes the gags with the other, trying not to choke him further. Stiles doubles over as he gasps for breath, his lungs deprived for god knows how long, tears leaking down his face from the sudden rush of oxygen.

“Don’t talk,” Derek tells him, afraid that his throat might be raw. Stiles just nods and grips Derek’s arm tight, winces as the last vine is removed.

Scott embraces Stiles, a full body hug, and Stiles pats him on the back a few times, wheezing. It’s like a normal teenager being comforted by their friend after a breakup, just with more blood, and Derek would laugh at how messed up their lives are if they weren’t still in danger. He looks around the clearing, still crouching in front of Stiles. He doesn’t want to move, not when Stiles is still holding onto him and bleeding. Scott must be thinking along the same lines, because he stands up but stays close, also looking around.

“Where is she?” he asks, and Derek shakes his head. He doesn’t know. He looks at the water, which is unwavering, no ripples at all.

“There’s more than one,” Stiles croaks, and Derek turns back to look at him.

“Don’t talk,” he says again, trying to be gentle, and Stiles lets out a breathy laugh. Derek doesn’t like him on the ground, all of a sudden, because it’s a vulnerable position to be at during an attack. He slips his arm under Stiles’ arms and helps the teen get shakily to his feet. “Point to where it hurts,” he instructs, and Stiles laughs again. Derek can see the telltale signs of shock.

“Everywhere,” he says, blatantly ignoring Derek’s order not to speak, and Derek can’t find the energy to be mad –hell, even frustrated—at him. In all honesty, he’s just glad Stiles is _alive._

“Did they say what they wanted?” Scott asks, and Stiles nods. A fit of hoarse coughing overcomes him, and Derek has to resist the urge to whine and nuzzle into the human’s neck. Stiles is _hurt_.

“Something about— feeding young. Or something,” he manages, and Derek can feel Stiles leaning heavily on his firm weight. He smells like pain and exhaustion, but muted from the adrenaline that Derek knows the teen is currently flooded with. Derek loops his arm in a slightly different way so he can grip Stiles’ waist, hold him up.

“You’re ok,” Derek whispers to him, and Stiles leans into him even more. Derek is practically acting as his legs. A noise to the right has all of them tense, and Derek tightens his grip on Stiles’ body. He feels the teen quiver, just slightly, and growls at the shadows. There’s a soft hiss, and Scott steps in front of Stiles as Derek raises himself to his full height. He keeps the hand around Stiles’ waist clawless, but the other one sure as hell is ready to kill.

The woman that emerges from the trees is beautiful. Her hair is a dark red, so long that it reaches past her hips, and her skin is pale as paper. Stiles tenses and Derek growls again. “That’s just one,” Stiles croaks, and the creature looks at him. Slits on her neck that resemble gills, long and hidden until now, flare. Derek looks around as Scott twitches, searching for the others that Stiles was talking about.

“Give the prey back,” she hisses, and Derek stares at her teeth in horror. He’s never seen a mermaid before, only heard descriptions, but he wasn’t prepared for this. Her teeth are sharp, like a puppy’s, but stained with red and surrounded by green-tinted, enflamed gums. _Pretty on the outside, until they open their mouths,_ Derek remembers Stiles reading to him, and feels disgust deep in his stomach.

“He’s not prey,” Scott growls, and the mermaid steps forward with a hiss. Derek rumbles a warning.

“Watch out!” Stiles suddenly cries, and Derek turns to his left as a quick movement catches his eye. His claws catch the soft skin of a mermaid’s throat on instinct and he snarls, watching as the first mermaid darts at Scott. Derek drags Stiles backwards as the other mermaid straightens up, blood pouring from her skin and her eyes red. Quicker than he can blink, she’s on them. Derek goes tumbling away from Stiles as she hits him with all her force, and there’s a few disorienting moments when the world spins and all he can think is _No, no, no._ Suddenly he’s looking up at the forest canopy. A mermaid obscures his view a second later, hissing, mouth open. She’s preparing to rip his throat out, and Derek hears Stiles cry out a few feet away, panicked.

The noise does something to him, to his wolf, and he roars. It shakes the ground around them and the mermaid shrieks, her hands flying up to cover her ears. Everything is muted in the water: sounds, textures, tastes; it makes her ears sensitive. Derek’s not trying to be quiet for her. “I am _not_ losing this fight,” Derek snarls, and swipes a hand up and into her stomach. There’s a squishing noise as he rips through her small intestine (like she’s made of pudding, he thinks, forces himself not to remember Boyd) and she gasps. A trickle of blood slips out of her mouth, and then she slumps to the side. The light in her eyes goes out.

Derek doesn’t bother to wipe her blood off before he’s darting over to Stiles, who has fallen to the ground as an angry mermaid tries to get to him through Scott. She has her claws out now, razor-sharp and longer than a human arm. Derek knows that those are her true weapons, ones that can turn a human into mincemeat. Probably a werewolf, too. So when she looks at Stiles, helpless with Derek still too many steps away and Scott busy trying to hold her back, horror runs through the werewolf.

The mermaid lunges, and Derek’s heart goes into his throat.

 _I’m going to see Stiles die, right in front of me_. He moves forward, trying to close those last two feet, to put himself in between the mermaid and Stiles, but she’s fast. She’s so very fast.

Scott is ready for the attack. He howls and knocks her to the side; the mermaid only has the chance to slice a small part of Stiles’ skin before Scott is clawing through her. The next second Derek is gripping Stiles, wrapping his arms around the human’s bruised body and dragging him away. Stiles presses into him as Derek frantically runs his hands all over, making sure Stiles wasn’t hurt more during the struggle. His wolf is screaming at him to protect, and Derek gives into it. Stiles grips tightly to him, chest heaving.

“Are you ok, are you ok, are you--” Derek hears himself chanting, and Stiles nods, shoves his face against Derek’s neck as the thump of a mermaid head being severed sounds around them. Derek feels like maybe he’s drowning or burning alive, because he almost just saw Stiles get cut in half. He grips the back of Stiles’ head, panting, afraid to let go. Keeps Stiles' face against the vein in his neck, feels the teen breathing there. It's like his adrenaline has shot him into an out-of-body experience, where the only thing that matters is knowing Stiles is in his arms, safe. Trembling, but safe. It takes him a few moments to even think again, to come back to his body.

“Scott?” Derek asks, his voice hoarse, and he hears an exhausted sigh in reply.

“She’s dead,” he murmurs, and stumbles back to them. There’s a large cut across his chest, but Derek can already see it stitching back together. Stiles looks over at Scott and breathes a sigh of relief, his fingers digging painfully into Derek’s arms. The werewolf wouldn’t have it any other way. As he trips back, Scott doesn’t seem fazed by the way Derek is possessively wrapping himself around Stiles. He just lays down on his back and sucks in deep breaths, reaching out so his hand rests near Stiles’ foot. They sit there like that for a few moments.

It’s Stiles who breaks the silence.

“You finally won a fight, Derek,” he jokes, and Derek looks down at him in shock, his eyes getting big. Scott laughs, actually _goddamn laughs,_ and Stiles squeezes Derek a bit closer when Derek rumbles angrily. He can feel Stiles breathing on his neck, soft little puffs of air. Derek dips his head down and lets Stiles’ scent become just a little stronger from the closeness.

“We need to get you out of here,” he says, ignoring the comment, and Scott sits up. His chest has practically healed by now. Stiles, however, is pretty beat up. Together, they manage to get Stiles onto his feet and to the car. Derek takes his keys out and unlocks it, trying not to rip the door off in his haste to get Stiles sitting down. Scott sits in the back, watching Stiles, as Derek attempts to start the engine. It takes him three tries because he’s so wrecked, shaking violently as he realizes just how close they all were to losing each other mere minutes ago. The two feel so much like pack right now that it’s scary.

“They said they had babies,” Stiles murmurs.

“Unfortunately,” Derek growls. There’s some silence, and then Stiles sighs.

“They’ll starve now, won’t they?” Derek wants to roll his eyes or snarl, he’s not sure. It is so like Stiles to think of _that_ when he’s in shock _._ Why can’t Stiles just have a normal human reaction to being kidnapped, for once in his life? Why can’t he be angry that he almost just got eaten? Scott makes a sympathetic noise in his throat and rubs Stiles’ back. Derek’s not feeling much pity for the babies. The goddamn mermaids don’t count as worthy of emotion, not in his book. Not after they tried to eat the one person outside of family that’s he actually cared about in years. He takes a turn a bit too sharply and Scott growls on instinct as Stiles’ unease spikes through the car.

“Sorry,” Derek grunts, and doesn’t look behind him to see their faces. He doesn’t want to think about how pale Stiles is, like when he woke up from his nightmare. He tries to focus on what needs to be done. “We need to call Deaton. The little ones need to be killed.” He feels Scott’s unhappy gaze on the back of his neck and he huffs. “Or relocated. And we need to get Stiles medical attention.”

“Not the hospital,” Stiles says instantly, and Derek nods. There’s no way in hell going there is less risky.

“My house is closest,” he says as they reach the end of the sloped road, puts his blinker on to turn left.

“Even in an emergency, he uses his safe driving skills,” Stiles comments to Scott, quietly, but Derek hears it. He doesn’t growl, because he doesn’t expect either of the teens to understand. He already thought that Stiles died from a car accident today; he’s not going to let that become a reality.

“Let’s go to your house. I’ll call my mom,” Scott says, and Derek nods. They’re back at the house in ten minutes, tops, and Scott gets on his phone as Derek helps Stiles up the porch and onto the couch. As he grabs the first aid kit, Stiles sinks into the cushions. Scott stands outside, talking to Deaton in a hushed tone, and Derek curls himself around Stiles with bandages ready. He can physically smell the shock on him now, the bitter lemon scent that is so characteristic of it, and he manhandles the human so that he can examine him more closely.

The sound of Scott walking in makes Derek raise his head. He doesn’t know what he expected, exactly, but Scott just smiles at him and sits down on the edge of the couch.

“Hey, buddy,” Stiles says, slightly slurred as he grins at Scott, and Derek shushes him once more.

“My mom and the Sheriff know what’s going on. The Sheriff is coming to take Stiles home,” Scott tells them, and Derek wants to scream. _No, don’t take him away from me. He’s safe here._ But he just swallows and nods. Scott continues on, oblivious of Derek’s internal turmoil. “My mom’s gonna meet us there, at the Stilinski house. But only three of us can go. Stiles needs to be laid in the back seat, according to Mom, so John’s car only has room for Stiles and then a passenger.” Scott reeks of guilt.

“Ok. You go with him,” Derek grits out, and Scott shoots him an unhappy look. Derek can tells that he feels bad, but there’s nothing either one of them can do. Stiles needs to be comforted, and Scott is his best friend. Derek is… well, he doesn’t know what he is yet. But Stiles needs Scott, who can keep calm and not wolf out every time Stiles whimpers. Derek knows, deep in his heart, that he’s not going to be much help.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Derek says quickly, because if he doesn’t agree now he’s going to wimp out and come along. Scott nods, seeming to understand, and Stiles twitches a bit. Scott looks at them and stands up.

“I’m going to run and meet the Sheriff. If there are any more mermaids lurking around, I don’t want them interfering. You stay here-- I mean, if that’s ok.” Scott seems hesitant to do anything that might sound like an order. Remarkably, the other werewolf doesn’t mind. He can’t argue with the logic of the plan, and he doesn’t want to leave anyways, so he just nods. In a flash, Scott is gone. The door shuts behind him and Derek returns his attention to the battered body in his arms. Each cut, each bruise, makes him want to tear his claws through the wall.

Stiles is quieter now, and Derek can’t help but think that it’s like the calm before the storm. He’s right.

“You and Scott saved me,” Stiles croaks after about five minutes, and Derek shushes him. Stiles ignores it. “I would be dead by now if you didn’t come. God, that’s weird. Dead.”

“Don’t,” Derek says, and his voice breaks. He can’t stand that word.

Stiles hands find his arms. “How did—how did you know?”

“You didn’t show up to read,” Derek replies. His heart is beating fast, being so close like this, and he needs to focus. It’s hard to talk and reign in his wolf. His own hands are quivering as he touches one of Stiles’ cuts with some alcohol cleaner.

Stiles lets out a breath. “You’re shaking,” he observes, and Derek ignores him. He doesn’t need the obvious pointed out. But Stiles grabs his hand, the motion unsteady. “Stop,” he says, and Derek shakes his head.

“You’re hurt, Stiles. You just don’t know it, because you’re in shock. Let me do this.”

“You saved me,” Stiles repeats, as if he’s a record stuck on a single track. The words come as a complete shock, because can’t Stiles _see?_ Stiles is hurt like this because of _him._ If Stiles hadn’t been coming to the Hale property, he wouldn’t have been taken. Derek’s feeling quite a lot of self-loathing right now, and it would be so much easier if Stiles was angry at him as well. He makes himself breathe, wrap a bandage around the deep bite on Stiles’ wrist. Every single thing that’s happened to Stiles is his fault. Scott turning into a werewolf. Gerard Argent torturing him. The Durach. Not stopping the Nogitsune in time. And now this. He didn’t know that it was possible to feel this much revulsion with himself, not since the fire.

“Whoa, Derek,” Stiles murmurs, and Derek glances up at him. Stiles reaches out, touches his face. It’s only then that Derek realizes he is crying. He can feel the wetness on his lips and he hastily moves to wipe it away, destroy any evidence of his emotions. But Stiles presses their foreheads together, and the motion is so new that it makes Derek jerk to stop. “Derek, listen. It’s ok. I’m ok.”

Derek stares at him and then manages to bark out a laugh. “I should be telling you that,” he says, but Stiles just shakes his head again.

“You already did, back at the spring,” he says, and Derek lets out a watery huff. Stiles cups the back of Derek’s head and pulls his face down, pressing it against the pale skin of his throat. It’s so trusting that it breaks Derek’s heart.

“It’s ok. Just breathe," Stiles soothes. Derek doesn’t want to, is afraid to, and tries to pull back. Stiles resists for a moment before letting out a frustrated noise, too exhausted to put up much of a fight.

Derek looks up at him, his wolf keening angrily as he moves away from Stiles’ skin. “You’re in shock,” he says, and Stiles pauses to think. Then he nods vigorously.

“Um, yeah. Everything is fuzzy as fuck. Almost died, yeah? Eaten by little fresh mermaid genetic units.”

“So you don’t know what you’re saying,” Derek confirms, but Stiles shakes his head. Derek hisses at him. “Stiles, stop _moving._ You’re hurt.”

“I can’t,” Stiles mimics, and slides his hand up so it’s against Derek’s heart. “Don’t you get it? I can’t. Because you’re hurting, too.” Derek swallows and breathes out through his nose. The way Stiles is looking at him makes him feel lightheaded, and when Stiles holds him tighter and pulls him back, Derek lets him; he doesn’t want to hurt him. “Goddamn it Derek, I’m kind of trying to have a moment here. Cooperate.” He can tell the words are meant to be lighthearted, but they come out just a tad too serious for it to be a joke. Stiles actually _is_ trying to offer him something.

“I... But...” Derek mumbles, and it’s half-hearted. He’s already wanting to taste Stiles’ skin. Guilt is the only thing stopping him now, the only thing repressing the urges that his wolf so badly wants him to act upon. Stiles makes a frustrated noise at the reply.

“Whatever you’re blaming yourself for, stop it. I’m here and I’m alive, OK? Because you were willing to work together with Scott to find me. I don’t want to leave here without… without making that clear. This isn’t your fault. I bet you think it is, somehow. But it’s not. And I’m going to flip shit if you retreat into your little shell again _just_ after I finally managed to be invited into it. So if you—if you want something or—or need anything, then just do it.” There’s nervousness in his voice, as if Stiles feels like maybe he assuming something. The problem is that he’s right. Stiles has opened him up, made him feel exposed, and he’s natural instinct is to close into himself.

Derek tries to think. Stiles collarbone is right against his face, so he does the opposite of what his brain is telling him: he gives in. He sucks in a breath and lets his hands come up to Stiles’ waist, shoving his nose into the unfiltered smell of _Stiles._ He’s still all cinnamon and moss, wet grass. Stiles' heartbeat is a pitter-patter of unreadable emotions, but Derek drowns himself in it. Stiles murmurs something that Derek can’t really hear, because he’s so focused on the way the blood pounds in Stiles’ body. He wants Stiles to smell more like him, _needs_ it. He’s not really thinking when he starts scent marking, breathing in through his nose and out his mouth so his scent will cover the human, but it doesn't take him long to fully invest himself in the action. He takes Stiles' hand and draws it up to his chest, wanting the human to feel his heartbeat, to communicate that Derek's life depends on Stiles' continuing. That if Stiles had died, Derek's heart wouldn't have survived it. The human's heartbeat stutters, just slightly, before he digs his fingertips into the space that Derek has given him. Derek whines, presses his face further into the pulse point. Stiles grips him tight, running a hand through Derek’s bloody hair.

“Does this mean what I think it does?” he asks, a bit squeaky, and Derek literally can't find any words, can't fathom any way to explain how he's feeling right now. “That you—uh, dig me? Because if it does, shitty timing, but, uh, I don’t mind it. Really want it, actually.” His words are slightly garbled but there’s no lie in his heartbeat. “I know I’m in shock. But that doesn’t change how I’ve felt—feel. Because I’ve been wanting this,” Stiles squeezes the space on Derek's clothed chest, “for months. So, um. That’s not the shock talking. Although I should probably stop talking, because I feel like I have a concussion. Do I have a concussion? Don’t answer that, actually. Just keep—with the scent thing.”

It’s such a _Stiles_ thing to do, to admit his feelings in the aftermath of being nearly killed, that Derek feels his lips twitching up. It’s --strangely-- hard to convince himself that Stiles is lying, that he doesn’t mean it. So hard, in fact, that he can’t.

“Just be quiet,” he says, and Stiles hums in agreement. The human rests his head on Derek’s shoulder, sinking into his warmth as Derek nuzzles his neck, liking the way it smells now. It takes a few minutes for him to convince his wolf that he’s done a good job, that Stiles definitely smells like his now.

After that, Derek holds him tight and resumes cleaning his visible cuts, a pang going through him every time Stiles winces. When Stiles shivers under his grip, Derek grabs the soft blanket from under the table, wrapping him tightly in it. Stiles struggles, just slightly. “No, stop, I want you to hold me,” Stiles insists, and Derek shifts so that he’s also wrapped in the blanket. It’s not worth arguing right now. Stiles presses his face against Derek’s chest, and Derek leans down and breathes him in. He closes his eyes, letting his hands travel carefully along Stiles’ body, categorizing his injuries. He can hear the cop car a few minutes away, and hates it.

“Do you need anything, before you go?” he asks, and even he can hear the dread in his own voice. Stiles is quiet for a little while.

“I need you to promise that you’ll visit me,” he says as the car parks outside and hurried footsteps near the porch. Derek wants to look away, but Stiles squeezes his arm. “Derek. I can’t—if after all this you just—I don’t know, disappear, I’m going to lose my mind. More than… more than I already have. If you—if you mean what you said, I need to see you within, like, forty-eight hours. Because if not, I won’t think it’s real. And I—I want to it be real.”

Derek growls in the back of his throat. “It’s real,” he rumbles, and Stiles makes a relieved noise. The Sheriff is on the porch now, Derek can tell, so he rushes the rest of the words. “If you want me to visit, I’ll visit. But if you change your mind—”

“Just shut up, Derek, because you’re being an idiot,” Stiles declares, just as John walks into the room. Derek leaps up from the couch and backs up as the Sheriff takes one look at Stiles and tears up. He walks over to Stiles and hugs him, tight enough that it has to hurt a bit. The Sheriff is sniffing and Stiles groans, covering his face with his hands. “Dad, I’m _ok,_ I’m _fine._ Don’t _cry,_ come on, Derek and Scott totally saved me. Just shock.”

“And a concussion,” Scott interjects from where he’s standing by the doorway. Stiles tries to glare at him but fails miserably.

“You are _so_ grounded,” the Sheriff says, still teary, and Stiles snorts. “I don’t even know how I’m going to explain a mermaid attack to our insurance.”

“It’s like those commercials, where the guy gets distracted by the hot girl,” Stiles says as his dad helps him to his feet. Derek rushes to help, and John sends him an appraising look, as if he’s trying to figure out exactly how he feels about Derek right now. Stiles’ grip on his arm is grounding. “There was a hot girl running by and I was a hormonal teenager.”

“In the middle of the _woods_?” John demands, and Scott snorts as Stiles makes an indignant noise.

“That is sexist, who says girls can’t be running around in the woods—”

“Because girls aren’t stupid,” Derek interjects, and Stiles turns his head to look at him as they reach the car door, indignant.

“You’re siding with _them_?” he demands, and then winces as he puts some pressure on his foot. “Ooh, ok, yeah, I’ll lay down. Feeling the pain now.” Scott clambers around to the passenger side and reaches back to create a makeshift pillow for Stiles with his hoodie as, gritting his teeth, Stiles manages to lower himself onto the back seats.

Derek watches Stiles even after the door has shut, afraid to look away. But when the Sheriff clears his throat, he’s forced to raise his eyes. “I’m sorry,” Derek says, instantly, and the Sheriff gives him a disapproving look.

“Don’t you dare,” he says, and Derek has to blink back shock. “You saved my son today, Derek. Scott was telling me about how you knew about the mermaids and where they store their feed.” The Sheriff laughs lightly. “Wow, never thought I would say that.” The words make Derek flash back to when he and Stiles were first starting to meet at the house; Stiles said that exact same phrase. _Like father, like son,_ he thinks. The Sheriff doesn’t seem to notice Derek’s expression, because he just keeps talking. “I know that if it wasn’t for you, we never would have found him. And while I’m used to Stiles getting into trouble and getting him out of it, there’s some things even the Sheriff, a banshee, and a teenage werewolf can’t do alone. So don’t you dare apologize. Stiles is alive because of you, son. We owe you.”

Derek struggles to find words. “I think I owe Stiles for more than you could imagine,” he says, and the Sheriff regards him thoughtfully. Then he glances back at the car. Derek follows his gaze, the tinted glass stopping him from seeing Stiles at this angle. A wave of concern punches through him and he straightens up.

“We’ll get him patched up,” the Sheriff assures him, and then opens the driver’s door. “I’ll remind him to text you.”

Derek wonders how the Sheriff knows that he and Stiles text sometimes. For some reason, Derek always thought that he was a secret friend, one who Stiles snuck away to see and didn’t mention when he went home. But by the way that Scott and the Sheriff are treating Derek, as if he’s actually important, his assumption must be wrong.

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, hastily adds on a, “please. Thanks.” The Sheriff nods to him and climbs into the car.

It’s hard to watch them drive away, knowing that Stiles is in the back and he isn’t.

* * *

It takes Derek three circles around Stiles’ neighborhood before he actually gets the guts to stop in front of the Stilinski house. He grips the wheel and takes a few deep breaths, telling himself that he can do this. His stomach has been flip-flopping for the two days that he hasn’t seen Stiles, so much so that he can’t even eat.

Maybe he should just wait another day—

No. He can do this. He’s got this. He wore his cleanest shirt and everything. He’s ready.

 _Come on Derek, you can face this,_ he tells himself as he opens the car door, taking a deep breath in. His heart flutters a little when he smells the faint traces of cinnamon across the road. It gives him the courage to cross the street and knock on the door.

When the Sheriff opens it, Derek has to blink a few times to register that it’s not Stiles. Stiles lives with _his father._ Derek knows that. Has always known that. He doesn’t get why it’s such a shock. Maybe because the Sheriff is just in jeans and a T-shirt, like Derek, and holding a beer. And he’s smiling.

“Derek, come on in,” he says, and Derek steps through the door in a state that is probably akin to shock. “Someone has been expecting you,” the Sheriff adds, walking over to the back door, and Derek looks out of the glass door and feels his throat tighten. Stiles is sitting out there in the twilight, watching something in the air that Derek can’t see yet. His leg is wrapped in a temporary brace, but Derek can tell that some of his cuts have healed. He wants desperately to go to him.

Derek swallows and then looks at the Sheriff. He feels oddly like he’s asking for permission with the motion. In a way, he is. If the Sheriff doesn’t approve, it won’t be a good start. But John smiles. “Make yourself comfortable.”

As Derek starts towards the door, the Sheriff clears his throat. “Although, Derek?”

Derek turns. “Yes, Sir?” he asks, and forces his eyes not to wander back to Stiles.

“If you hurt him, there won’t be a body for the police to identify,” he says, as if it’s the most ordinary statement, and Derek blinks at him. The idea of hurting Stiles is so foreign to him that he can’t even fathom it, not anymore. He tries to find the words to explain that without rambling, and without sounding like he’s looking for a mate for the rest of his life. _Which you are,_ his wolf whispers. But Derek knows it’s too soon. The future is uncertain, and he won’t dictate Stiles’ for him.

“I’ll always fight for him,” he promises, and it’s a promise he knows he can keep. The Sheriff’s mouth twitches up but then he turns and, taking a swig of his beer, walks to the kitchen. Derek takes that as his cue for freedom, and he can’t grab the door handle fast enough.

Derek slides open the screen door and steps into the warm night. Somewhere, maybe in a neighbor’s yard, there are lilacs. The grass is green despite the recent drought, and it doesn’t make a sound as Derek steps on it. Stiles, however, must have heard the door. “Dad, you have to check this out,” he says, and Derek draws in a breath.

“I can get him, if you want,” he offers, and Stiles turns around so quickly that he nearly knocks himself over. His eyes go wide, scent spiked with surprise, and then a wave of pleased sweetness overwhelms it. He starts to clamber up and then trips. Derek is there to catch him before he even tilts a few inches.

They stare at each other for a few moments. Then a smile slides over Stiles’ face. “You came.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, and feels himself smiling back. It’s the first genuine one he’s had in a while, he realizes. It seems fitting that Stiles is the one to receive it. “I told you I would.”

Stiles beams at him. “You did. Yeah. I just—I was convinced it was just something my mind made up. Shock, you know? Even though Scott kept telling me it actually happened and complained about my smell all of yesterday.” Derek blushes but can’t help to take a breath in; it’s true. Stiles still smells, very faintly, like him.

“Is that… ok?” Derek asks, and Stiles gapes at him. Then he throws his head back and laughs.

“You’re ridiculous,” he grins, and a warm feeling settles in Derek’s stomach as Stiles pulls him down so they’re sitting on the grass. Derek looks left and right, watching as little blips of light appear and vanish around them. There’s a jar by Stiles’ side, sealed tight, and Derek picks it up.

“Fireflies,” he realizes, and Stiles nods. He’s holding Derek’s hand, their fingers laced together, and it makes Derek feel so good that he wants to howl.

“Easy to forget how beautiful they actually are, yeah?” Stiles murmurs, and Derek swallows. He nods. It’s true. They really are, when he steps back and remembers that they aren’t going to turn into Oni anytime soon. Stiles continues on, watching the way the bugs flicker in and out of brightness. “My therapist says that I need to learn to control my fears. Catching them… it reminds me that I have power over it. I can choose when to release them, and I don’t have to until I’m comfortable.”

“Makes sense.”

A quiet settles over them after that as the twilight gets darker. There’s a few inches of space between their shoulders, a comfortable one, and Derek just breathes in the cinnamon scent next to him and listens to Stiles’ breathing. Derek thinks about how beautiful this place is, how anyone who was on the outside would think that they are just two normal people, living lives that have nothing to do with werewolves or mermaids or demons that possess people. It sends his mind straight into the depths of his sorrows, but it brings up a question that he didn’t even know he had anymore, not since Stiles read him the first page of _Harry Potter_.

“What were you running from, anyways?” Derek asks, and Stiles looks at him with a puzzled expression. He clarifies: “When you started coming over, to read. What were you so afraid of, enough to hide at my house?”

Stiles goes still, then bites his lip. Chews on it for a few moments. Then, he looks down at his hands. “I don’t think I was running away from anything.” Derek cocks his head, and Stiles looks up. Looks right into his eyes. “I think I was running _towards_ something. Someone.”

Derek’s heart swells and it’s almost painful, but in the best way he can imagine. Pure affection overwhelms him and it makes everything clear. All his _feelings,_ all his jumbled thoughts about Stiles. Because hearing that Stiles has felt the same way, that Derek isn’t just confused or desperate but that they actually have a _connection_ , well—it’s like taking medicine after suffering a head cold for months.

“I’m glad,” Derek says, and Stiles seems to start at the softness in his tone, “that it was me you ran to.”

Stiles’ eyes become tender (so warm and honey-brown, Derek thinks, entranced), and he scoots a little closer. Slowly, tentatively, he reaches up and places his fingers against Derek’s stubble. “I really want to kiss you,” he says, so gently that Derek feels shivers from it. His heart pounds wildly in his chest at the next words. “Can I kiss you?”

It’s at that moment that Derek realizes something he should have the first time the human showed up on his doorstep: Stiles understands him. So deeply, purely, that he feels he should ask about the simplest gesture. A kiss. Just as kiss. But Stiles is checking, making sure, because he _knows._ Kate. Jennifer. Every single person who ever made Derek do something he didn’t want to, pushed something upon him that he didn’t know how to stop.

Derek will never forget that for their first kiss, Stiles asked.

“Yes,” he whispers, and Stiles leans in.

The first thing is the taste of cinnamon; a deep, intense flavor that moves into him as the softness of Stiles’ lips press against his own. He reaches forward, cups Stiles’ face, lets their mouths move together as he pours everything he is, and ever has been, and ever will be into the air that is now shared between them. There’s no tongue, no open mouths; just pure, innocent presses of their lips. Promises. Because they have time, they really do, and both of them are only just realizing that.

When they separate, it feels like it’s been forever and also no time at all. Derek is dazed, almost dizzy, and he lets the feeling of Stiles’ fingers on his arms anchor him. He sucks in a breath and Stiles grins at him. Derek is struck with the sudden realization that he can kiss Stiles now, whenever he wants to. So he kisses him again. Stiles laughs against his mouth and wraps his arms around Derek’s neck. Derek wants to yip with excitement, howl with the victory thrumming through him, and he wraps his arms around Stiles’ waist and stands up, lifts him into the air and just keeps kissing him. It’s like liquid euphoria, to do this.

It only last a few seconds before he sets Stiles down, remembers that Stiles might still be hurt. But Stiles just beams and asks, “Want to watch a movie?”

They do end up watching a movie. It’s _The Princess Bride,_ which Derek can’t help but like even though he’ll deny it to his death, and it’s late when they finally get up off the couch (which, thanks to the watchful eye of Sheriff Stilinski, was not the stage for more kissing and less movie watching). Stiles stretches, limbs unorganized as always, and Derek can’t help but scent him for any pain. The teen smells slightly sore, but otherwise fine. He’s leaning heavily on the leg that isn’t in a brace, but he can stand on his own. That in itself is good news.

“Well,” Derek says, and shuffles. He knows he should leave. “I guess I’ll get going.”

“We can’t let you drive this late at night!” Stiles protests, and the Sheriff raises his eyebrows at his son. Stiles rolls his eyes. “ _Dad._ Come _on._ I run around with werewolves on a day-to-day basis. Is a sleepover that scary?” At the look on the Sheriff’s face, Derek works quickly to try and repair the situation.

“No, it’s fine,” he tries to insist. “I can drive. I don’t want to intrude.”

“You’re _not,_ ” Stiles protests, and the Sheriff sighs.

“Stiles,” he warns, and Stiles pouts.

“Dad, _please?_ I’ll feel better if Derek stays over.” Stiles gets a look on his face that somehow resembles a kicked puppy. The Sheriff looks at him, then at Derek. Derek tries not to look too hopeful, instead settling his face into some type of stoic politeness. He can smell the moment when the Sheriff decides.

“Fine,” he says, sounding defeated, and Derek thanks whatever higher power exists when Stiles doesn’t do a fist pump or anything equally stupid for the situation. The Sheriff turns to Derek, who instantly stiffens. If he had a tail, he would tuck it. “No sex,” he says, and Derek feels himself go bright red as Stiles groans in humiliation. He stutters, trying to find some words, but the Sheriff holds up a hand. “If you have sex with my son when I am in the house, I swear to God I will send you to Guantanamo Bay Prison myself.”

“Yes, sir,” Derek hastens to say, and Stiles gives him a thumbs up behind his dad’s back. Derek wants to roll his eyes, but he bites his tongue instead. The Sheriff is sizing him up, analytical eyes searching for any lie. But what he sees must assure him, somehow, because he just sighs and rubs a hand over his face.

“I’m going to bed,” he says, and trudges up the stairs without looking back. When Derek finally looks away from his retreating form and glances at Stiles, the teen rubs a hand through his hair and grins rather awkwardly.

“Could have gone worse,” Stiles says, and Derek snorts. Stiles steps towards him, entwines their hands. Without thinking, Derek leans down and presses their foreheads together. “Is it ok?” Stiles asks, and Derek blinks out of his obsessive categorization of the moles on Stiles’ face so he can listen. Stiles seems shy, suddenly; hesitant. “Do you want to stay over? It’s ok, if you don’t, I get it… I don’t want to make anything too soon.”

“No,” Derek says, shakes his head. Squeezes Stiles’ hands. “I want to stay. Should I… couch?”

It’s Stiles’ turn to snort. “Nice try, Derek. Here, let’s go. You can borrow my toothbrush and everything.”

Derek blushes as Stiles starts pulling him towards the stairs. “I don’t want to push you, either,” he says, automatically shifting a hand so he can help Stiles ascend up each step. Stiles just chuckles, smelling fond.

“I know you won’t.” The words are so confident that it makes Derek believe in them.

He waits in Stiles’ room as the teen goes to shower quickly, sitting down on the bed. It smells so much like Stiles that he has to physically resist the urge to bury his face in it. Without Stiles in the room with him, it’s a lot easier to convince himself that the kiss and the confessions were all a dream or hallucination. He takes in the walls to distract himself. They are oddly bare for someone who seems to have as many interests as Stiles, everything neat and in a place that is clearly quite specific. He wonders if Stiles was like this before the Nogitsune. Probably not.

He turns when Stiles enters, his hair wet and wearing plaid pajama pants that touch his toes. Derek finds himself smiling, and Stiles beams back at him. “Hey,” he says, settling down next to Derek, and Derek nuzzles his head affectionately. Beads of water slip onto his skin.

“Bed?” he asks, because he’s too nervous for much else, and Stiles nods. The human half-stands and then seems to realize something.

“Shit,” he says, and suddenly he seems embarrassed. “Your clothes. I don’t—none of my clothes will fit you.”

 _This is my cousin,_ Derek remembers, from so long ago with Danny, and it sounds a wave of nostalgia through him. Things were so _different_ then. Then it makes him think of how he and Stiles used to fight, how he once hit Stiles’ head into the steering wheel, and it makes him feel a little sick.

“It’s fine,” he assures Stiles. He looks away as he asks, “Do you—do you mind if I just sleep in my boxers?” He chances a glance at the teen, who is blushing and also looking away.

“Course not,” the human says, even though his scent suddenly smells somewhere between slightly aroused and incredibly nervous. “Here, I’ll just—I’ll get the light.” Derek stands up and starts stripping down as Stiles turns off the light and finds his way back to the bed. The moonlight is shining onto Derek from the window, and he tries not to think about the fact that Stiles might be watching him. So he does it quickly, efficiently, and slips under the covers just a few moments after Stiles does.

“Will you stay for breakfast?” Stiles asks, and Derek makes a content noise when Stiles grips his hand.

“If you want,” he says, and Stiles shakes his head.

“It’s about what _you_ want.”

Derek pauses, thinks about this. Then he scoots a little closer, letting Stiles’ other hand find his chest. “It’s about what _we_ want,” he corrects, and his werewolf eyes gift him with Stiles’ smile in the dark at the word.

“I like that,” Stiles murmurs, and Derek does too. “So, breakfast then. With bacon and everything.”

“Who’s cooking?” he asks, and Stiles laughs.

“You and my dad. Some quality bonding time.” The moonlight must be on Derek’s face, because his grimace doesn’t go undetected. “Come on. You’re afraid of him? Tough wolf Derek Hale, Mr. I-Punch-Through-Walls Hale, is afraid of my father?” Derek rolls his eyes, doesn’t bother to point out that Stiles’ father is basically the only person who can keep Stiles from Derek, except for the teen himself, of course. He decides to change the subject.

“Time for bed.”

Stiles huffs, but consents. He shifts a bit on the pillow, squirms, and Derek tries to give him space to get comfortable. Stiles bats at him and Derek finds it completely endearing. “Stop moving away. You have to stay close. Cuddling is kind of in the job description.”

This makes Derek raise an eyebrow. “What, I’m romantically employed now?” Stiles makes a face at him, sneaks into his space a bit further for a peck of the lips.

“I’d prefer to keep monetary transactions out of this. I mean, call me a romantic with high expectations, but that seems healthier.” Derek tries to keep in his laugh, just lays his head down on the pillow and watches as Stiles finally seems to get comfy. Their hands find each other again. “Thanks again for staying,” Stiles murmurs, stroking Derek’s thumb.

After all that they’ve been through together, after all the things they’ve confided in each other and even though he _knows_ that Stiles wants him, cares about him, Derek still isn’t good with words. So he just does what he can to show that he wants to be there, next to Stiles. “Mind if I come closer?” he asks, and Stiles flushes slightly.

“Sure,” he croaks, and Derek shifts just a little nearer. His arm hooks under Stiles’ neck, the other on his waist with a feather-light touch, and Stiles snuggles into him. He’s feeling protective, and oddly content, and he manages to gather the courage to let their feet touch. He’s wearing socks, but Stiles isn’t, and he can feel the cold in the human’s toes. It bothers him, and with a few twitches he manages to kick his socks off so he can transfer some heat and hopefully warm Stiles up.

Stiles squirms just a little bit, forcing himself further into Derek’s chest, and Derek tries hard not to rumble with pleasure. He watches as Stiles’ eyes flutter closed, a few tiny increments each minute, and lets their feet press together and the weight in his arms become heavy. It’s so beautiful to watch him fall asleep that Derek actually aches from it. The trust and contentment coming from the human is enough to make him go limp. As he does, he realizes that he wants this, every single day. Maybe for the rest of his life. He wants Stiles to fall asleep with him, wants to wake up and see his face and be able to intertwine their hands together. He wants Stiles here, with him.

It’s his last thought before he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it! Thanks so much for reading.
> 
> I once saw a comment on Tumblr that mentioned how it's ridiculous that in many Sterek fics, it is only Derek who ends up saving Stiles. I half-agree. I love the idea of protective Derek, possessive Derek; but I also don't like the way that Scott is often portrayed. He can end up girl-obsessed/Allison-obsessed, or a weak alpha, and as the main character of the show I think that Scott is actually an incredibly kind person who has been placed in a near impossible situation. He's a teenager. Just a teen. So all he can really do is try, yeah? But Scott kind of gets forgotten as a best friend, as someone who has tried to be there for Stiles (even though sometimes he isn't, but Stiles clearly still cares about him anyways). That's why I thought it was essential to have Scott come into the story and help. Scott and Derek being bros is pretty much my happy thought for Teen Wolf. Besides Sterek, obviously. 
> 
> A small note: I am not overly familiar with PTSD, except for a few family members who have shared their experiences and a lot of research before writing this. Therefore, I hope I did not misrepresent. Feel free to note if I there is anything I did to stereotype or otherwise misrepresent PTSD. I found myself really invested in the idea of PTSD!Derek, because I think it would be nearly impossible for him not to be incredibly traumatized by the events in his life. That's partly why there was no sex in this fic; I was going to add one, near the end, but it just didn't fit at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of this tumblr post: http://hellasterek.tumblr.com/post/87886482150/thealphasspark-rudy-francisco-from-my
> 
> My tumblr: https://let-them-eat-feminism.tumblr.com/


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